COLLECTED    POEMS 

1907-1922 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY 

JOHN    ERSKINE 

THE    MORAL    OBLIGATION 
TO     BE    INTELLIGENT 

AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

THE    KINDS    OF    POETRY 
AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

DEMOCRACY    AND    IDEALS 

GREAT  AMERICAN  WRITERS 
(With   W.   P.   Trent) 

POETRY 

ACTION    AND    OTHER 
POEMS 

THE  SHADOWED  HOUR 

HEARTS  ENDURING 

A  Play  in  on«  Scene 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

1907-1922 


BY 

JOHN  ERSKINE 

Professor  of  English  at  Columbia  University 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  AND  COMPANY 
1922 


Copyright,   1906,  by 
JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1907,  by 
JOHN   ERSKINE 

Copyright,  1922,  by 
DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


iv 


NOTE 

The  poems  here  gathered  are  those  I  care  to 
preserve  from  previous  volumes,  Act  a  on  ana 
Other  Poems,  1907,  and  The  Shadowed  Hour, 
1917,  together  with  certain  poems  that  have  ap 
peared  in  magazines  during  the  last  fifteen  years, 
and  others  that  are  now  printed  for  the  first 
time. 

For  permission  to  reprint  I  thank  the  editors 
of  The  Century  Magazine,  The  Atlantic  Month- 
y,  Harpers  Magazine,  East  and  West,  The  Lyric, 
The  Yale  Review,  The  Texas  Review,  The  Am- 
herst  Graduates  Quarterly,  The  Columbia  Uni 
versity  Quarterly,  The  Harvard  Graduates  Maga 
zine,  La  Revue  de  Bourgogne,  and  The  En 
chanted  Years. 

J.  E. 
August  I,  1923 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ACTION I 

THE   SONS  OF   METANEIRA 9 

IPHIDAMUS 29 

PENTHESILEIA 36 

ACHILLES  AND  THE  MAIDEN 47 

SIR   GRAELENT 54 

"GREAT  VOICES  OF  THE  PAST" 66 

"BENEATH    THIS    BEAUTY" 67 

SONG 68 

"LOVE  THAT  NEVER  TOLD  CAN  BE" 69 

ROSE  RIME .     .  7O 

"LOVE,  THE  WINGED  LORD" 71 

PARTING 72 

DEGUSTIBUS 73 

"IN    MEMORY    I    HAVE    MY    WILL" 74 

FIREFLY 76 

THE   RETURN 77 

EDGAR   ALLAN    POE 80 

RHYTHMS 84 

ECHOES 85 

ON  READING  THE  SYMPOSIUM 86 

CATULLUS 87 

vii 


Vlll  CONTENTS 

CARLO  LEONARDO  SPERANZA 88 

TO  A  POET  IN   THE   MEDITERRANEAN QI 

WILDWOOD 95 

CHERRY    BLOSSOM 101 

WHIP-POOR-WILL 104 

YOUTH  DYING I06 

THE  CITY   FLAG 114 

DEDICATION        ,       .       « 117 

AT    THE    FRONT       .       t Il8 

APPARITION        . 123 

HOSPITAL 125 

SATAN 126 

PARIS,  HELEN'S  LOVER 132 

ASH-WEDNESDAY 138 

"TAKE  NOT  THY  HOLY  SPIRIT  FROM  us"     ....  149 

CHILDHOOD 151 

THE   INN-KEEPER I2 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

1907-1922 


ACTION 

Fair  bloomed  the  happy  world,  fair  bloomed  the 

May, 

But  over  Lethe  came  no  bloom  nor  change, 
Only  the  ancient  languor;  soft  and  smooth, 
Save  where  a  slumbrous  poppy,   nodding  low, 
Trailed  into  ripples,  Lethe  slipped  away; 
And  there  the  dead,  fresh  from  the  bright  world, 

came, 

And  drank  forgetfulness — one  cup  for  all, 
Whether  their  crown  of  life  were  flower  or  thorn, 
Their  draught  of  life  proved  sweet  or  bitter  wine. 
There  statesmen,  soldiers,  leaders  of  their  times, 
Heart-worn  with  blazing  out  new  paths  for  truth, 
Drank  with  their  meanest  follower,  side  by  side ; 
Two  lovers  there,  one  with  the  passionate  kiss 
Of  sweet  lips  clinging,  one  in  patient  love 
Of  those  same  lips,  which  never  might  be  his, 
Together  drank,  and  equally  forgot; 
I 


2  ACTAEON 

Thither  came  joy  and  sorrow  ceaselessly, 

And  straight  passed  over,  levelled  unto  peace. 

But  with  them  came  a  spirit  not  for  peace; 
Violently,  as  one  half  crazed,  he  came 
Down  to  the  banks  of  Lethe.     There  he  stood; 
As  a  true  arrow,  springing  from  the  bow, 
Qeaves  a  long  arch,  then  quivers  in  the  gold, 
So  fled  the  spirit  to  the  banks  and  stood. 
A  moment  so;  then  to  the  dead  cried  out: 
"What   drink  ye  here?"     And   one  in   answer 

told, 

Stammering  for  amazement,  of  the  stream 
That  stills  the  love  of  life,  and  sweetens  death 
With  pure  forget  fulness.     Then  rang  that  land 
And  loud  re-echoed  with  the  strangest  voice. 
The  strangest  cry,  that  ever  startled  hell: 
"Better  a  life  of  torture,  death  of  shame, 
And  sorrow  lasting  on  to  many  deaths, 
Than  peace  for  me,  bought  by  forgetfulness !" 

He  stood  erect,  the  rough  wild  hair  blown  back, 
As  from  swift  running;  at  his  heart  one  hand, 
The  other  raised  as  if  to  warn  the  dead 


ACTAEON  3 

From  Lethe;  and  his  face — more  than  the  light 
Of  life  and  youth  and  May  burned  in  that  brow 
And  flushed  those  lips,  pain-set ;  his  eyes  seemed 

blind 

Of  glory,  as  from  gazing  on  the  sun. 
As  when  a  tree  falls  prone  across  a  brook, 
[And  gathers  up  its  waters  to  a  pool, 
So  rose  the  startled  dead  around  him  there, 
And  wondered  at  him. 

Then  a  woman  spoke: 
"Wouldst    thou    remember    now?       When    the 

light  goes, 

Why  lay  another  shadow  on  the  dark? 
Has  sorrow  met  thee?    There  are  double  scars 
For    wounds    remembered;    here    no    memory 

lives ; 
No  more  thy  thought   shall   cling   to   what   is 

gone- 
How  can  the  ivy  climb  when  the  house  falls?" 
He  almost  smiled,  for  pity;  then  there  flamed 
Fire  in  his  eyes,  and  his  heart  filled  his  voice. 
"Oft  as  I  hunted  through  the  summer  woods, 


4  ACTAEON 

The  wind  would  fly  with  me  and  spur  me  on, 
The  low  pine-sweetness  urge  me,  fern  and  flower 
Lean  to  my  flight,  and  whisper  after  me, 
Till  the  wide  forest  fell  to  murmuring 
Of  sounds  that  echoed  clearer  than  the  pack, 
And  followed  something  swifter  than  the  deer. 
But  when  I  rested  breathless,  at  the  noon, 
The  whole  world  came  to  silence  suddenly, 
With  one  refrain  still  lasting  on  to  haunt  me 
Of  what  the  woods  sang: 

'Every  flower  of  the  world 
Waits  to  be  gazed  on ;  all  the  honey  of  the  earth 
Waits  to  be  gathered;  no  forbidden  sweets, 
And  no  forbidden  beauty/ 

So  befell 

This  morning,  that  I  hunted  till  the  noon, 
And  thirsting,  came  upon  a  forest  pool, 
A  silver  mirror  where  the  sun  looked  in. 
I  came  a-tiptoe,  for  the  forest  song 
Was  on  me — ''All  the  honey  of  the  earth* — 

when,  hark! 
A  whirl  of  laughter  never  brook  could  sing, 


ACTAEON  5 

Though  silver  pebbles  teased  it  into  song. 
O  perilous  music!     Marvelling  I  stood 
For  one  dear  moment,  dreaming  not  at  all 
To  break  the  age-long  privacy  of  gods ; 
But  then  the  breeze  stirred — 'Every  flower  of 
the  world' — 

0  the  music,  O  the  wild  refrain 

That  rapt  my  soul!     I  drew  the  leaves  apart — 

1  looked  on  Dian! 

Knee-deep   in  the   pool, 
So  white  against  the  forest;  all  her  hair 
Falling  in  tangles,  dark  against  the  white, 
And  dripping  silver  in  the  noonday  sun. 
She  raised  her  eyes,  the  swift  blush  covered  her, 
One  divine  rose  burning  with  terrible  fire. 
Lightly  she  dipped  her  fingers  in  the  pool, 
And  lightly  flung  the  silver  in  my  eyes, 
And  I,  amazed  to  be  so  gently  used, 
Still  poring  on  her  beauty — all  at  once 
I  felt  the  bow  and  quiver  slip  my  fingers ; 
My  hand  was  as  the  hoof  of  a  great  stag; 
A  hairy  covering  fringed  my  eyes,  and  clothed 


6  ACTAEON 

My  limbs  with  awful  change ;  then  keen  I  felt 
The  branching  antlers  cleave  my  brow,  and  knew 
A  sudden  trembling,  not  like  human  fear, 
Bite  at  my  heart. 

She  watched  me,  still  as  death, 
Nor  longer  cared  to  screen  herself;  the  blush 
Fell  from  her  face  like  the  deep  set  of  sun, 
That  brings  the  stars  out  cold;  but  as  I  looked, 
Her  beauty  grew  and  kindled  in  the  cold, 
Until  my  heart  broke  into  fire  before  it, 
And  the  fear  passed  away. 

I  heard  the  pack 

Crying;  deep  pity  changed  her  look.     I  knew, 
But  left  her  not,  so  marvellous  the  pity 
That  drew  her  eyes  to  mine.  They  slew  me  there, 
My  own  poor  hounds,  but,  ere  I  fell,  I  saw 
Her  face  grow  sorrowful.    How  can  I  forget 
That  divine  face?     Ye  may  forget,  but  I 
Gazed  once  on  beauty  till  her  glance  grew  kind, 
Suffered  the  cost  of  it,  drank  of  the  bliss, 
And  evermore  remember." 

High  the  voice 


ACTAEON         .  7 

Rang  o'er  that  dismal  country,  triumphing, 
And  a  great  glory  flushed  Actseon's  face. 
But  ere  the  silence  half  resumed  itself 
Back  from  the  echo,  turned  the  spirit  band 
Incredulous,  forth  to  their  flight  again. 

As  when  strong  rising  waters  burst  the  dam, 
Sweep  clear  the  river-bed,  and  only  leave 
One  stubborn  buttress  stiff  against  the  flood, 
So  stood  Actaeon  while  the  dead  rushed  by. 

"One  draught  of  Lethe  for  a  world  of  pain? 
An  easy  bargain;  yet  I  keep  the  thorn, 
To  keep  the  rose.    I  will  remember  Dian ; 
If  I  forget,  who  shall  remain  to  tell 
What  beauty  was?     Perchance  the  gods  have 

kept 

Some  unillumined  corner  of  deep  hell 
To  brighten  with  this  memory.    This  I  know : 
They  have  no  power  to  take  her  from  me,  more 
Than  she  could  keep  me  from  her  in  the  world, 
Nor  death  could  keep  me !" 

Slowly  turned  he  then 


8  ACTAEON 

Where    the    dark    country    sleeps    beneath   the 

gloom ; 

And  as  he  went,  the  glory  of  his  face 
Spread    gleams    before    him,    like    the    coming 

dawn — 

Trailed  brightness  after,  like  the  fading  day; 
And  when  he  passed,  the  quiet  gloom  returned. 


THE  SONS   OF  METANEIRA 

I 

Darkening  the  open  door,  in  thought  he  gazed 
On   his   ripe  meadows,   on  the   mountain   road, 
On  the  still  trees  above  the  shaded  well; 
Then  inward  to  the  twilight  room  he  turned 
Where  Metaneira  sat — 

"Strange  that  a  woman 

Who  fears  not  child-bearing,  neither  the  pain 
Nor  peril,  cannot  face,  save  panic-pale, 
The  bringing  up  of  children  day  by  day. 
With  danger  courage  comes,  and  with  thine  hour 
Comes  on  brave  yearnings  for  this  child  unborn, 
But  no  heart  comes  for  the  safe  homely  years — 
Small  fingers  at  thy  bosom,  growing  hands 
That  cling  to  thine,  and  running  feet  beside  thee, 
And  face  upturned  to  love  thee  with  quick  smiles. 
The  boy  we  have,  what  dread  was  thine  to  rear ! 
Yet  he  takes  life  as  one  who  loves  to  live; 
9 


10  THE    SONS    OF    METANEIRA 

Joy  is  the  breath  of  him.    This  other  child 
As  fair,  I  think,  befalls,  if  but  thy  fear 
Cloud  not  its  spirit." 

Leaning  from  the  low  couch 
She  answered — 

"I  feared  no  danger,  nor  shunned  pain ; 
I  thought  only  of  what  a  man  may  share 
With  woman,  the  precious  burden  of  childhood — 
Not  the  nine  months,  the  birth  more  exquisite 
Of  the  young  soul  slowly  finding  the  world. 

0  Celeus,  when  I  brood  on  the  frail  bark 
We  dare  be  pilot  for,  and  blindly  grope 
With  clumsy  guesses  toward  the  eternal  shore, 

1  think  how  reckless  in  the  eyes  of  gods 
Human  desire  must  seem,  and  human  love. 
So  thinking,  I  feel  terror  and  loneliness ; 
Then  I  reach  out  for  help  to  thee,  but  thou 
Answerest    as    though    these    were    but    simple 

things, 

And  life  simple,  and  children  in  the  world 
No  care." 

"The  gods  who  send  desire,"  he  said, 


THE   SONS   OF    METANEIRA  II 

"Fear  not  to  trust  us  with  the  incarnate  dream. 

But  art  thou  lonely,  Metaneira — thou 

Who  wouldst  not  keep  handmaid,  nor  slave  nor 

free, 

Near,  if  thy  child  need  rearing?  Lonely  art  thou? 
Nay,  jealous  as  the  wild  deer  for  thy  young! 
So  fearful  when  the  boy  was  born,  and  now 
Thou  hast  sent  thy  woman  away,  even  ere  the 

birth. 
Do  I  not  know?" 

"Celeus,"  she  cried,  "wherefore 
Chide  me  for  what  is  love  ?    To  thee  the  day 
Brings  a  plain  round,  things  simply  to  be  done, 
What  happens,  happens,  and  so  to  dreamless  rest. 
But  I  see  what  might  happen,  and  the  hours 
Come  fateful  with  hard  choices,  good  and  ill, 
And  the  day's  labor  is,  by  taking  thought, 
To  seize  the  good.    Therefore  with  all  my  love 
I  watch  the  lightest  breath  the  infant  draws; 
The  ill  that  might  molest  him  comes  on  me, 
I  feel  the  blow  that  falls  not.    What  hireling 
Cares  for  another's  child  so?    Bruise  and  tumble 


12  THE    SONS    OF    METANEIRA 

Are  natural  luck,  they  say;  and  the  child's  soul 

Takes  its  luck  too.     I  have  sent  them  all  away. 

Nay,  but  the  loneliness  I  feel  is  more — 

A  mystery  that  lifts  me  from  the  world, 

A  strangeness  as  if  earth  were  not  my  home, 

And  our  love  but  a  visitant  from  afar." 

Celeus  with  earnest  eyes  looked  from  the  door, 
And  saw  Eleusis  under  summer  skies, 
The  meadows  and  the  mountain  road — the  world 
Wherein  he  native  was,  and  she  was  strange. 
Then  turning  toward  her — 

"Thou  art  a  wistful  woman; 
Dreams  and  weird  thoughts   are  more  to  thee 

than  breath, 

And  the  unsecret  earth  before  thee,  thou 
Veilest   with  phantoms,   with  imagined   clouds. 
Wherefore  dost  thou  reach  ever  out  from  life 
With  eyes  for  what  cannot  be  seen,  with  hearing 
For  whispers  and  echoes  where  none  else  hears 

sound? 

Our  loves,  that  made  us  one,  in  this  alone, 
Drive  our  two  hearts  asunder.     Sorrow  I  see, 


THE   SONS   OF    METANEIRA  13 

And  mischief,  yet  the  common  fate  is  plain; 
Nothing  waylays  nor  haunts  us ;  life,  in  itself 
Clear,  would  ask  but  courage  to  be  lived. 
Earth  is  our  brother,  and  light  over  all 
Draws   from   our  dust   the   destined   fruit  and 

bloom — 

Dreams,  fears  and  hopes,  rooted  in  what  we  are. 
So  I  have  thought,  and  the  one  child  we  have 
Through  his  seven  years  confirms  me.  Hast 

thou  seen 

How  humanly  he  learns  the  arts  whereby 
Man  and  the  gods  within  him  build  his  world? 
His  hopes  are  better  than  the  things  he  has, 
And  what  he  has,  helps  him  to  reach  his  hopes. 
Nothing  will  harm  him,  no  shadow  threaten, 
Save  his  own  errors;  nothing  this  child  unborn 
Will  harm,  if  but  the  darkness  of  thy  mood 
Blight  not  its  soul.     Fate  is  man's  handiwork, 
I  believe,  whereon  the  gods  look,  and  forgive, 
And  a  dark  fancy  prophesying  ill 
Is  but  a  true  suspicion  of  ourselves ; 
The  gods,  whose  eyes  are  clear,  clearly  behold 


14  THE   SONS   OF    METANEIRA 

The  seeds  within  us  of  our  cherished  doom; 
They  with  immortal  sorrow  watch  us  all 
Thwarting  the  good  they  will  us ;  and  most  they 

grieve 

When  love  like  thine,  exquisitely  alert, 
Brings  headlong  on  its  danger,  fancy-framed." 
She  answered  sadly — "Celeus,  the  boy  and  thou 
Feel  not  the  mystery  that  oppresses  me; 
Would  that  I  had  thy  nature,  the  sunshine, 
The  faith  opening  like  earth  after  fresh  rain; 
But  my  love  reaches,  and  I  feel  thy  hand 
Helping,  but  cannot  find  thy  heart." 

His  hand 
Reached  out. 

"I  would  a  woman  were  here,"  he  said, 
"To  share  thy  loneliness ;  I  would  the  gods 
Would  send,  however  humble,  a  comrade  for 

thee, 
Comrade  for  thee,  and  helper  for  the  child." 

With  large  eyes  she  questioned  him — "A 
stranger?" 


THE   SONS   OF    METANEIRA  1 5 

II 

All  glamour,  golden  beauty  arched  with  blue, 
Eleusis,  vale  of  peace,  enchanted  lay — 
Meadows,  and  by  the  mountain  road  one  house, 
Dark  trees,  beneath  their  shadow  a  clear  well, 
And  far  away  the  immeasurable  sea 
Faint-sounding;    drunk    with    autumn    savors, 

earth 
Rich   harvest-scent    was    breathing,    and   burnt 

leaves — 

When  down  the  road  a  lonely  wanderer  came, 
An  aged  form,  that  step  by  step  between 
Some  place  far  back  and  some  place  far  beyond 
Measured  the  weariness.    Grey  was  her  hair, 
Her   eyes   were  grieving,    her   firm   lips   were 

proud ; 

Her  body,  tall  and  stately,  mantle-wrapped, 
Majestic  swayed  like  wheat  in  summer  wind, 
As  slowly  to  the  wellside  she  drew  near — 
There  darkly  paused,  with  folded  patient  hands, 
Fixed  as  a  carven  stone. 

Over  the  world 


l6  THE    SONS   OF    METANEIRA 

The  magic  gleam  shone  brighter,  the  low  sun, 
Slanting,  reached  to  the  grass  beneath  the  trees 
And  robbed  the  well  of  shadow,  save  where  still 
The  woman  stood.    Suddenly  from  the  house 
A  radiant  boy  came  running  with  light  foot, 
Balancing  on  his  shoulder  a  water- jar — 
Then  at  the  shadow  waiting  unawares, 
Marble-like,  with  bowed  and  grieving  head, 
He  curbed  his  dancing  mood  and  walked  sedate, 
Shamefaced  before  a  stranger.    While  he  drew, 
She  watched  in  silence  till  the  jar  was  full, 
Then  in  low  tones  that  thrilled  with  pleasure- 
pain 

Like  the  delirious  chill  from  autumn  fields 
Swift  after  sunset — 

"Doth  thy  mother  live, 
A  rich  woman,  that  without  envy  looks 
On  strangers'  children  ?    Who  of  yon  wide  house 
Is  master?" 

Brimming  with  joy  to  share,  "Celeus, 
My  father — hark,  my  one  brother  weeping,  born 
This  very  day!" 


THE    SONS   OF    METANEIRA  17 

He  paused  for  sheer  delight, 
And  she,    kindling   with   sudden   hope — "What 

woman 

Ministers  to  thy  mother  and  the  child? 
Where  is  thy  father  ?    Run  to  him — bid  him  say 
If  there  be  timely   service   I   can  do, 
Service  that  wisdom  asks  and  practised  hands; 
Tell   him,  brief  is  the  shelter  age  desires, 
But  long  the  recompense  of  pity  endures." 

Eagerly  on  his  errand  sped  the  boy, 
Tasting  a  new  adventure;  soon  he  brought 
His  father,  walking  slow,  whose  earnest  words 
Challenged  her — 

"Woman,  what  thing  of  grief  art  thou, 
Shadowing  these  waters  with  unbidden  gloom? 
What  thing  of  grief  and  age,  that  dost  desire 
To  handle  joy  newborn?" 

Her  quiet  voice 
Like  a  soft  rainfall  sang — 

"Bitter  the  bread 

The  stranger  eats  and  earns  not;  gods  nor  men 
Who  suffer  alms  are  free;  let  me  but  serve. 


l8  THE   SONS   OF    METANEIRA 

Only  to  abide  a  little,  to  be  still, 

To  seek  for  nothing,  to  buy  with  quiet  hands 

A  quiet  heart" — 

"Quietness  and  to  spare/' 
Celeus  broke  in,  "room  by  the  hearth  enough, 
And  work  enough;  abide  here,  since  thou  wilt." 

When  he  had  spoke,  the  boy,  as  if  to  unfold 
Kindness  out  of  the  scant  and  measured  words, 
Reached  for  her  hand  and  slowly  toward  the 

home, 

Silently  to  the  doorway,  brought  her.     There 
With  lifted  arms  of  prophecy  she  prayed — 
"To  all  this  house  the  immortal  gods  be  friends, 
And  chiefly  to  this  lad,  who  gave  me  rest. 
Master  of  field  and  meadow  shall  he  be, 
To  plow,  to  plant,  to  reap — him  and  his  sons 
The  earth  obey  forever!" 

His  boyhood  felt 

Exquisite  shadowed  beauty,  earth  under  stars; 
Her  words  startled  like  bird-notes  in  the  dawn; 
Suddenly  for  her  presence  the  house  seemed 

small. 


THE   SONS   OF    METANEIRA  19 

III 

Autumn  to  winter,  winter  drew  to  spring, 
And  comfortable  became  her  ways,  like  all 
Love-service  wrought  by  customary  hands. 
Sap  in  the  vein,  soft-stirring  with  the  year, 
And  kindling  at  her  presence,  human  love ; 
Strange  wants  unrealized,  hungers  of  heart, 
Mystical  poverties  of  soul,  she  filled; 
Even  as  common  field-flowers  casually 
Borrow  the  sun  and  use  the  earth  and  sky, 
The  household  without  reckoning  dwelt  with  her. 

But  when  to  autumn  the  year  turned  again 
And  the  old  poignant  beauty  filled  the  world, 
The   mother  Metaneira,  spirit-quick, 
Felt  the  home  troubled  with  awe  wonderful. 
She  pondered  long  these  motions  of  vague  fear, 
Still  troubled  more,  till  in  a  twilight  mood 
She  broke  them  to  her  husband  and  the  boy, 
Under  the  spell  of  her  strange  insight  rising 
Maenad-mad, — wild  eyes  and  haunted  face; 
With  the  intense  flame  of  passionate  thought 


2O  THE   SONS   OF    METANEIRA 

Her  fragile  body    quivered  as  she  spoke — 
"Who  is  this  phantom,  this  weird  wayfarer, 
Ye  two  brought  in  to  aid  me?     Know  ye  not 
The   Shining  Ones  oft  hide  in  human  forms, 
And  darker  spirits,  brooding  mischief,    oft 
Resemble  to  betray  us?" 

Celeus  frowned; 

"She  is  a  quiet  phantom,  grant  her  that! 
All  that  haunt  us,  the  gods  make  old  like  her, 
So  quiet  and  so  wise  !     Summer  and  winter 
Has  not  her  faithful  toil  prospered  the  year? 
What  strangeness  has  she  done?" 

Poised  among  fears, 

Perplexed  to  choose,  the  mother  hesitated, 
Then    answered  not  his  question  but  her  own 

thoughts — 

"She  loves  the  child,  she  loves,  but  not  as  we 
Love  it,  not  with  a  simple  heart;  secrets 
We  cannot  guess  at,  her  deep  manner  hides ; 
Her  service  steals  upon  us  like  a  spell, 
Yet  something  fugitive  in  all  she  does, 
Some  touch  of  marvel,  some  too  perfect  skill, 


THE   SONS   OF    METANEIRA  21 

Makes  helpless  those  she  helps.  Oft  she  escapes, 
As  though  her  mood  were  hampered  by  our  eyes, 
And  strangely  broods  or  dreams  or  works  alone. 
Now  for  two  nights,  with  the  first  dusk,  I  saw 

her 

Stealthily  watch  me, — then  the  cradled  babe 
She  lifted  to  her  breast  and  made  pretense 
To  soothe,  though  it  slept  sound, — then  to  the  hall 
Yonder  carried  the  child,  and  slyly  drew 
The  bolts,  I  heard  them  creak,  in  the  closed  door." 

Celeus,  still  unpersuaded,  comforted  her — 
"The  skill  of  old  hands  is  another  youth; 
Youth  is  the  earliest  magic,  and  the  last 
Is  practice,  nothing  more ;  this  woman's  skill 
Came  with  her  years,  but  sorrow   makes  her 
strange." 

Instant  upon  the  word,  as  at  the  return 
Of  half-forgotten  fear,  the  mother  cried — 
"What  is  this  sorrow,  then,  that  shadows  her? 
A  human  grief  with  time  unfolds  to  love, 
And  tears  that  are  not  shame  are  shared  at  last, 
But  all  the  kindness  of  our  house  melts  not 


22  THE    SONS   OF    METANEIRA 

The  silence  from  her  lips ;  she  may  not  will 
Mischief,  but  power  she  has,  she  brings  on  fate — 
Were  not  her  words  prophetic  for  the  boy 
That  named  him  master  of  meadows  and  of  fields, 
Whom  the  earth  should  obey  ?    Did  not  the  grain 
Ripen  miraculous  where  she  bade  him  sow? 
Did  not  the  grove  she  planted,  the  young  trees, 
Thrive  beyond  hope  ?    Weird  blessings  fall  on  us, 
Yet  rather  would  I  lose  the  alien  gift 
Than  dread  the  lurking  debt  still  to  be  paid." 
Wondering  at  his  mother,  the  young  boy 
Pleaded,  suddenly  eloquent  out  of  love — 
"All  that  she  taught  me,  of  earth  and  sun  and 

showers, 

Of  seed  and  tilth  and  gathering  of  the  grain, 
To  others  I  could  teach — no  weird  secret, 
But  simple  knowledge  waiting  to    be  used. 
The  things  that  beauty  touches  become  strange, 
I  heard  her  say;  the  strangeness  thou  dost  fear, 
Is  it   not  beauty?" 

The  mother,  following  her  dread, 
Hearing  him  not — "  'Only  a  little  while, 


THE   SONS   OF    METANEIRA  23 

A  little  while  ago  I  found  her  gazing 
On  the  bare  fields  as  one  looks  on  the  dead, 
And  from  her  moving  lips  came  soft,  wild  words : 
*O  loveliness  (she  whispered)  rapt  away! 
Who  now,  thy  face  beholding,  gathers  joy? 
Ay  me,  the  joy  that  from  eternal  love 
Up  from  my  bosom  flowing  bloomed  in   thee! 
The  wheat,  the  poppy  languish  meadow-shorn, 
The  summer  dies.     O  thou  that  canst  not  lan 
guish, 
Maiden  lost,  Immortal  One !'  " — 

The  voice 

Of  Metaneira  faltered  and  grew  faint, 
Uttering  the  remembered  cry;  but  Celeus 
With  deeper  pity  reproved  her  perverse  mood — 
"Hast  thou  not  heard  of  lost  loves  in  the  world, 
Of  hearths  vacant,  of  hopes  precious  but  vain? 
She  in  her  years  is  wounded  with  old  sorrows; 
This  babe  of  ours,  soft-breathing  on  her  breast, 
Brings  back  through    tears  the  frail  unburied 
ghost, 


24  THE   SONS   OF    METANEIRA 

Some   girl  long  dead,   whom  grief  hath  made 

divine. 

Ah,  Metaneira,  that  having  lost  no  child 
Knowest  not  the  faithful  pain,  the  abiding  grief !" 
"And  wouldst  thou  lose  him,"  Metaneira  cried, 
"The  babe  that  helpless  lies  on  her  strange  heart  ? 
Have  I  not  said,  when  the  day  ends  she  carries 
To  yonder  room  the  sleeping  child   away, 
Stealing  with  furtive  glances,  and  with  guile 
Barring  the  door?    Now  hearken!     Underneath 
And  over,  by  the  hinges,  through  the  latch, 
Sharp  gleams  shoot  out,    long  blades  of  eerie 

light, 

That  all  but  pierce  the  nailed  and  paneled  wood. 
After  a  space  the  light   fades,  stealthily 
The  latch  withdraws,  and  with  too  perfect  care 
She  enters  crooning  slumber-songs — O  clear 
The  triumph  in  her  face,  the  evil  shining! 
And  when  I  take  the  child,  dim  meadow-scent, 
Damp  odors,  flood  ethereal  o'er  my  brain, 
And  the  child's  eyes,  on  more  than  infant  depths 
Brooding,  grow  wonderful  with  calm — Celeus ! 


THE    SONS   OF    METANEIRA  2$ 

See  now,"  she  cried,  "the  light  streams  through 

the  door!" 

Flinging  her  fragile  body,  she  burst  the  latch, 
And  frenzied  saw  the  woman  holding  outstretched 
The  child,  and  waves  of  weird  light  washing  it, 
Fire  that  from  the  hearth  seemed  not  to  flame, 
But  like  a  rolling  sea  rilled  the  whole  room. 
One  glimpse — and  Metaneira,  crazed  with  love, 
Tore  fiercely  from  those  hands  the  flame-wrapped 

babe. 

Then  from  the  earth  the  woman  rose,  a  queen 
Celestial,  young  and  fair;  the  glowing  sea 
Ebbed  from  the  room  into  her  burning  heart, 
As  to  its  source,  and  beautiful  was  her  wrath, 
Light-giving.     And  Metaneira  stood  aghast. 

IV 

Slowly  a  sad,  majestic  voice  began, 
"Blind,  like  all  mortals !     Ye  withhold  the  gods 
From  their  unfinished  blessings.    Know  ye  me? 
Demeter;  from  vain  walking  in  this  world 


26  THE   SONS   OF    METANEIRA 

To  find  the  lost  Persephone,  Pluto's  bride, 

Hither  I  came,  and  here  for  a  little  rest, 

A  little  quietness   to  sorrow  in, 

I  laid  my  godhood  by,  and  hid  myself 

In  human  poverty  and  mortal  years. 

Could  ye  not  guess,  such  blessings  as  I  brought 

Come  only  from  the  gods?    First  I  bestowed 

On  yonder  lad   the   mastery  of   earth. 

The  labors  that  men  do  beneath  the  sun 

Shall  be  for  him  no  burden  but  sheer  joy; 

He  shall  have  knowledge  of  this  world  as  it  is, 

He  shall  love  what  is  kindred  to  his  fate, 

He  shall  know  men,  and  he  shall  know  his  gods. 

But  for  this  other  child,  this  dreaming  babe 
That  stirred  the  memory  of  my  ancient  heart, 
I  would  have  furnished  immortality. 
So  frail   he  seemed,  so  pitiful,  so  pure, 
And  time  so  stern  a  teacher,  and  the  path 
So  rough,  where  he  must  stumble,  fall  by  fall 
Painfully   fashioning  his   eternal  soul — 
To  spare  him,  I  desired, — to   make  his  days 
All  of  such  moments  as  the  happiest  men 


THE    SONS    OF    METANEIRA  27 

Dream  only  at  their  best.     Here  by  the  fire 
I  washed  in  deathless  love  the  mortal  mind, 
And  fast  the  god  grew  in  him,  till  your  fear 
Ruined  the  heavenly  will.     Now  he  shall  be 
Master  of  nothing,  but  dreams  shall  master  him. 
A  pilgrim  of  confusion  shall  he  be ; 
Two  worlds  alternate  shall  be  his,  but  rest 
In  neither;  painfully  shall  his  hand,  his  eye, 
On  the  obdurate  face  of  things  lay  hold, 
The  while  his  dreams  look  on  what  never  was; 
And  for  he  cannot  tell  the  twain  apart, 
Madness  and  ecstasy  shall  envelop  him, 
Out  of  the  world  he  finds  but  will  not  see, 
Building  a  world  he  sees  but  cannot  find. 
Nothing  that  is  shall  teach  him  what  it  is — • 
Pain  of  this  world,  still  knocking  at  the  door, 
Nor  grief  that  stabs,  nor  joy  that  comforts  him; 
He  shall  be  strange  to  thee,  for  all  thy  love, 
And  for  thy  sake,  for  him  all  things  be  strange ; 
Whate'er  he  loves  shall  whisper  him  farewell, 
And  waft  him  on  the  exile  of  his  dream — 
A  human  face,  a  shining  on  the  sea, 


28  THE    SONS   OF    METANEIRA 

The  cold  moon,  or  the  still  march  of  stars, 
If  but  the  inexorable  beauty  call, 
Eternity,  rising  in  him  like  a  tide, 
Shall  from  their  bases  lift  and  set  afloat 
The   stranded   accidents   of   time." 

She  ceased, 

The  light  died  from  the  room,  and  she  was  gone. 
But  Metaneira  heard,  far-off,  the  voice 
Of  Celeus,  like  a  sound  breaking  on  sleep. 


IPHIDAMUS 

There  on  the  shore  his  lonely  roof  was  set 
Bordering  the  dunes,  storm-beaten,  and  below, 
The   never-tiring  breaker   crashed   and   roared. 
The  sloping  sands,  wave-wrinkled  and  untrod, 
Now  kissed  the  feet  of  Theano,  when  she  first 
Gladdened  the  house,  under  the  bridal  stars, 
And  the  warm  hearth  blazed  welcome  through 

the  door. 

He  would  not  mourn  the  summer,  nor  regret 
The  failing  year,  for  Theano  in  his  heart 
Brought   greenness    on   the    barren   sands,   and 

kindling 

A  warmer  glory  in  the  Thracian  dawns, 
Drew  purple  o'er  the  wave,  grey  with  the  winter. 
The  hearth  that  once  flamed  lonely  to  the  skies, 
Now  sang  of  human  comfort,  and  the  girlish 
Music,  Theano's  laughter,  made  her  love 
Hear  not  the  broken  sea.    The  thin  young  moon, 
The  silver-eyed,  rose  wondering  on  their  joy, 
29 


30  IPHIDAMUS 

And  shining  larger,  found  no  love  like  theirs 
From   shore  to   shore.      But   all  too   soon  she 

waned ; 
And  ere  the  nights  were  dark,  their  joy  was 

dead. 

A  Greek-born  wanderer,  resting  at  their  door, 
Grown  thankful  over  generous  meat  and  wine, 
Paid  them    but  ill,  the  idle  woe-bringer! 
"Friends,  have  ye  made  the  mercy  of  the  gods 
So  welcome,  it  will  never  dwell  elsewhere? 
How  lightly  here  the  breath  of  Eros  moves, 
Stirring  the  quiet  air  to   music  low; 
But  all  my  land  bows  to  one  gust  of  war, 
As  on  the  forest  falls  the  bitter  North, 
Bending  one  way  the  marsh-flag  and  the  pine. 
Now  all  the  sails  of  Hellas,  raised  in  wrath, 
Are  set  for  Troy;  false  Helen  and  her  love 
Look  seaward  now,  and  count  how  many  wings 
Urge  on  the  will  of  the  rewarding  gods. 
Lo,  now  the  seamen  prop  the  dripping  keels 
High  on  the  beach;  the  Argive  spear  is  loosed, 
And  with  it  flies  a  swift  unlovely  sleep 


IPHIDAMUS  31 

For  Trojan  eyes ;  or  in  the  reddened  night 
The  glaring  camp-fires  through  the  Achaian  host 
Wake  Paris  from  his  dreams.     Even,  it  may  be, 
Old  Priam,  fallen  poor  of  younger  arms, 
Hides  a  white  beard  under  the  cloak  of  bronze 
To  pace  the  shaken  walls." 

He  spoke  the  words: 

And  Theano  listened  sorrowful,  with  her  eyes 
Full  of  the  grief  of  war ;  but  ere  he  ceased, 
On  her  the  woe  was  fallen. 

For  now  no  more 

Had  he  beside  her  pleasure,  as  of  old, 
In  word  of  love  or  laughing,  but  his  eyes 
Followed  her  ever,  restless  with  bright  fear. 
He  found  no  comfort  in  the  hearth — moodily 
Stared  at  the  flame  unbrightened.     The  wave- 
worn  beach 

All  day  he  paced,  revolving  anguished  thoughts, 
Like  one  whose  heart  two  purposes  besiege; 
And  when  against  the  sky  some  wide- winged  gull 
Flashed  like  a  sail  over  the  last  billow, 
Long  would  he  watch  its  flight ;  and  in  his  face, 


32  IPHIDAMUS 

Like  carrion-ravens,  trouble  circled  dark, 
Low-brooding  o'er  the  battle  in  his  soul. 

There  came  a  sullen  day  in  the  late  year, 
Dim  with  low  clouds,  blown  huddling  from  the 

North, 

And  then  at  last  his  spirit  bowed  itself 
To  one  possessing  purpose.     Down  the  coast 
He  called  his    men,  old  lovers  of  the  sea, 
Scarred  from  the  fierce  embrace  of  boisterous 

waves, 

Brave  hearts  that  found  their  hope  in  bleak  sea- 
dawns. 
Swiftly    they   shouldered   down  the  unpropped 

keels, 

Freighted  with  arms  and  gifts,  where  the  flood- 
tide 

With  every  wave  more  rudely  tossed  the  bows, 
And  where  the  cliff  robbed  nothing  of  the  wind. 
Then  from  the  ships,  the  seamen  at  their  oars, 
The  rocking  masts  that  spread  out  hungry  arms 
Wfde-yearning    to    the    wind — he    climbed    the 
steps 


IPHIDAMUS  33 

To  Theano,  where  she  waited  at  the  door. 
She  had  no  welcoming  smile,  but  took  his  kiss 
Quietly,  and  the  words: 

"O  weep  not,   Theano! 
Though  with  great  mischief  work  the  gods  their 

will. 

They  drive  the  plow  of  anger,  and  uproot 
Slowly-blossoming,  early-blasted  flowers; 
The  joy  of  man  they  spare  not.  Was  it  I 
Forgot  the  hungry  days  of  love,  expecting 
The  honey  and  the  wine  for  evermore? 
The  dreadful  Three  have  cloven  the  single 

thread, 

And  weave  us  separate  fates.     O  having  thee 
Who  art  my  wisest  goddess  and   most  fair, 
I  could  not  go :  but  thee  I  have  no  more. 

That  day  when  he,  the  raven-throated,  told 
His  evil  tale  of   Helen  and  her  wars, 
And  Priam  stricken,  shorn  of  friends — I  turned 
A  selfish  ear,  and  said,  'He  needs  not  me! 
Truly,  my  father's  guest- friend,  unto  whom 
My  blood  beats  loyal  and  I  owe  it  all, 


34  IPHIDAMUS 

But  now  he  cannot  ask  it!     Lonely  souls 
With  no  fair  face  to  live  for,  let  them  die 
A  happy  death  for  Helen;  but  for  me 
Love  pours  the  cup  of  life,  wine  of  desire: 
I  will  not  take  away  my  lips/ 

No  more 

Delight  of  dawn  was  mine,  when  the  young  day 
Came  stirring  at  the  window,  nor  the  song 
Of  breakers  brought  me  slumber  in  the  night; 
For  with  the  dawn  I    felt  uncertain  dooms 
Gathering,  and  the  sad  reluctant  sea 
Wearily  thundered  woe.     Lovely  no  more 
Thy  beauty  seemed,  and  all  thy  words  unsweet, 
For  Priam  rose  before  me    comfortless, 
Shaken  with  age,  and  cried,  'May  love  forget 
Him  who  forgets  the  ancient  love  of  friends !' 

Now,  ere  the  curse  strike  deeper,  I  will  go; 
Late,  but   the  wind  is  swift  to  overtake 
The  Spartan,  where  he  seeks  his  worthless  bride. 
I,  for  a  better  love,  have  swifter  wings, 
And  on  the  plains  of  Troy  shall  win  again 
The  first  unclouded  vision,   thee  once  more, 


IPHIDAMUS  35 

To  cheer  me  home  from  deeds  of  friendly  faith, 
So  to  abide  as  when  I  saw  thee  first 
Under  a  happy  moon,  and  heard  thy  voice. 

Lo,  even  now  thy  cheeks  are  rose  again, 
Flushed  with  the  promise.    Ah,  remember,  sweet, 
Thou  art  not  alone,  though  lonely,  and  our  house 
Not  desolate,  like  that  Lacedaemon  home ! 
At  night  when  we  two  sit  by  the  warm  blaze, 
And  hear  the  hungry  sea,  I  think  that  Love 
Stands  in  the  doorway,  and  no  harm  comes  in. 
And  when  I  go,  the  god  himself  sits  down 
Before  the  empty  hearth  and  keeps  the  house. 
Now  Love  and  thou  keep  well  my  house  for  me !" 

On  her  white  lips  his  kiss,  and  on  her  cheeks 
His  warm  tears  fell,  as  from  her  arms  he  turned 
Down  to  the  ship,  to  the  grey  wind-combed  sea. 
On  him  she  fixed  her  hopeless  eyes  amazed; 
As  when  in  hell  unwelcome   Hermes  comes, 
Earthward  to  lead  Persephone,  their  queen, 
And  the  wan  dead,  with  infinite  despair, 
Knowing  the  woe  at  hand,  the  utter  gloom, 
Watch  that  fair  comfort  swiftly  borne  away. 


PENTHESILEIA 

So  Hector  fell,  and  Troy  without  defence 
Looked  for  Achilles  knocking  at  the  gate; 

There  was  no  other  heart  to  brave  him  thence, 
The  stubborn  walls  at  last  must  let  in  fate. 

But  he,  delaying,  held  away  their  doom, 
For  on  a  bleak  hill  far  across  the  plain, 

Beside  his  lost  friend  in  the  new-built  tomb, 
Whom  Hector  slew  and  for  that  death  was 
slain, 

He  grieved,  and  clasped  his  knees,  and  bowed 

his  head, 
To  hear  no  sound  though  night  and  day  went 

by, 

Mourning  the  friendship  and  the  glory  sped, 
And  after  Hector,  his  own  turn  to  die; 

36 


PENTHESILEIA  37 

Beholding  now  the  end  of  mortal  things, 
He  would  not  lift  his  armor  from  the  ground, 

He  would  not  hear  the  pleading  of  the  kings 
To  storm  the  city  and  be  homeward  bound. 


Yet  he  would  come  at  last,  Troy  knew,  and  woke 
To  daily  respite  and  to  daily  fear, 

And  wild  devices,  thin  as  drifting  smoke, 
Crossed  their  dark  hour  with   unconvincing 
cheer ; 

So  long  he  tarried  when  he  might  have  come, 
What  if  the  subtle-planning  gods  intended 

Another  shift  in  the  apparent  doom, 

Another  Hector,  Troy  once  more  defended? 

Two  only  undeluded  met  the  woes 

Long   fated,    and   the   approaching    night   of 

dread ; 
Andromache,  who  when  the  wailing  rose 

Was  weaving  in  her  house  a  purple  web, 


3  PENTHESILEIA 

And  she  had  called  for  water  on  the  fire, 
That  Hector,  soon  returning  after  toil, 

Might  wash  away  the  battle  and  the  mire, 
And   cool  the   wounds   with   delicate-scented 
oil; 

Even  then  she  heard  the  sudden  cry  of  death; 

She  said,  "It  was  his  mother's  voice  I  heard," 
And  hurried  to  the  walls  with  choking  breath, 

To  the  pale  throng  that,  pitifully  stirred, 


Made  room,  with  boding  silence  on  their  lips, 
And  there  she  saw  the  chariot  on  the  plain, 

Swift  horses  dragging  Hector  to  the  ships; 
She  had  seen  this,  she  could  not  hope  again : 


And  Priam,  the  sad  king,  who  in  the  dark 
Crept  to  Achilles  and  humbled  his  white  head, 

And  brought  again  the  body,  torn  and  stark, 
And  gave  it  peace  with  the  untroubled  dead — 


PENTHESILEIA  39 

He  too  was  hopeless  and  would  live  no  longer, 
But  being  king,  he  staggered  to  the  close, 

His   desperate   strength   by   each   despair  made 

stronger, 
And  he  was  patient  when  fresh  hopes  arose. 

Then  out  of  Thermodon  the  huntress  came, 
The  maiden  warrior  with  her  slender  grace, 

With  her  two  spears,  and  her  mysterious  fame 
That  no  foe  lived  before  her  cold,  clear  face. 


Quietly  she  dawned  as  a  dream  doubly-bright 
That  unforetold  we  dream,  on  Priam's  town, 

Or  as  a  moon  that  noiseless  in  the  night 
Rises  with  gradual  silver  and  looks  down. 


She  had  no  need  to  tell  them,  they  beheld 

What  errand  she  was  on — she  was  their  lives, 

Their  city,  and  their  safety,  and  she  held 
Death  for  Achilles  in  those  gleaming  knives. 


4°  PENTHESILEIA 

They  were  as  perished  travelers  in  a  waste, 
Who    see    above    salt    grasses,    parched    and 
thinned, 

A  cloud-like  thing — is  it  a  cloud? — and  taste 
Cool  dampness  coming  on  a  ghostly  wind. 

King  Priam  watched  this  frenzy  seize  the  throng, 
Studying  her  bright  youth  with  tired  eyes, 

And  heard  a  voice  beside  him — "They  are  wrong, 
She  is  no  goddess  walking  in  disguise; 

"So  slight  a  girl  my  Hector  once  could  hold 
Shoulder-high    with   his    hand,    and    feel    no 
weight, 

Yet  he  for  all  his  strength  was  over-bold; 
Priam,  you  will  not  send  her  to  her  fate?" 

"No  goddess,"  said  the  king,  "yet  she   might 
prove 

A  rescue,  and  this  miracle  might  be, 
That  first  a  woman  bound  us  with  her  love, 

And  at  the  last  a  woman  set  us  free. 


PENTHESILEIA  41 

"But  she  will  try  her  fortune,  come  what  may; 

She  thinks  to  conquer,  let  the  gods  decide ; 
Were  she  my  child,  I  would  not  bid  her  stay, 

So  many  children  have  gone  forth  and  died." 

"O  Priam,  lingering  shadow,  hardly  living, 
Has  the  long  slaughter  dulled  its  own  despair? 

Once   the    fresh   sight    of    blood   was    torture- 
giving  ; 
Now  after  so  much  battle  can  you  bear 

"This  long  procession  of  lost  youth,  and  take 

The  sacrifice  in  unabating  flood 
Poured  out,  poured  vainly,  for  the  city's  sake  ? 

O  King,  they  are  your  city,  and  their  blood 

"Is  the  red  heart  of  Troy  that  ebbs  away! 

Rather  a  fury  and  a  cruel  wrath 
Than  this  accepted  horror,  day  by  day; 

Rather  the  storm  that  scorches  in  its  path, 


42  PENTHESILEIA 

"Walls  scattered  to  confusion,  stone  from  stone, 
Old  folk  with  bleeding  lips  struck  cold  and 
mute, 

The  skulls  of  children  cloven  to  the  bone, 
And  frantic  women  captive  to  the  brute — 

"Agonies  that  consume  and  then  pass  by — 
Than  horror  stretched  to  habit,  and  the  skill 

To  formulate  another's  right  to  die, 
Or  utter  the  illusion  that  will  kill." 

"Daughter,  I  love  not  war,  though  war  has  made 
Sorrow  indeed  my  habit,  nor  love  to  see 

Youth  come  so  straight  on  death — how  I  have 

prayed 
For  my  own  end,  and  yet  it  will  not  be! 

"Yet  there  is  medicine  in  these  perishings, 
A  kind  of  mercy  in  so  many  woes ; 

Even  in  peace  the  great  departing  brings 

Anguish,  and  hearts  are  broken  in  its  throes, 


PENTHESILEIA  43 

"But  then  the  shadow  falls  so  seldom,  we 
Make  us  an  armor  of  the  interval; 

Now  here  in  war  our  shield  is  frequency — 
The  shadows  are  less  dark,  so  close  they  fall. 


"And  they  who  die  at  home,  fall  as  the  leaf 
Falls  in  a  casual  wind;  but  he  who  gives 

A  life  for  something,  is  a  noble  grief, 

He  has  a  meaning,  and  his  memory  lives. 


"Now  if  this  maiden  in  her  destiny 

Be  not  our  savior,  she  may  find  her  grave; 

Achilles  may  be  gentle,  she  may  be 

Spear-booty,  and  go  home  his  household  slave ; 


"Or  she  may  stay  and  never  fight  at  all, 
Till  the  doomed  city  crumbles  in  the  fire, 

Then  into  long-drawn  misery  may  fall, 
Living  to  serve  a  vulgar  man's  desire ; 


44  PENTHESILEIA 

"She  may  return  and  wed  in  her  own  land, 
And  die  in  child-birth;  or  sons  of  her  bearing 

Like  Paris,  may  bring  mischief  in  their  hand, 
Like  Hector,  may  be  lost  in  battle- f aring ; 


"Or  she  may  never  wed,  but  slowly  fade 
Into  old  age  unnoticed,  as  a  tree 

In  a  wild  forest,  that  to  none  gives  shade 
Or  fruit,  but  moulders  in  futility. 


"Is  it  for  this  you  would  draw  back  the  wreath, 
The  laurel,  that  her  fingers  all  but  touch? 

I  am  too  old  to  quarrel  much  with  death; 
Life  is  our  sorrow,  we  may  live  too  much." 


"Grief  is  the  savor  of  a  woman's  lot," 
She  said,  "whether  we  wed  or  die  unmated, 

We  cannot  be  a  woman  and  taste  it  not ; 

But  battle-wounds  for  us  were  never  fated." 


PENTHESILEIA  45 

"Daughter,  if  woman's  fighting  grieves  you  more 

Than  war  itself,  is  it  less  terrible 
Men  should  be  slain  than  women?"  "No,  all  war, 

Whoever  falls — but  if  this  maiden  fell — " 


"Daughter,  you  never  pleaded  so  to  shield 
Our  dearest,  not  our  Hector!"     She  replied, 

"I  begged  him  to  be  prudent  in  the  field; 
Had  he  been  not  so  bold,  he  had  not  died. 


"But  still  there  was  a  chance  he  might  return, 
None  for  this  girl."    "You  would  have  asked 
him  then 

To  stay  at  home  and  let  the  city  burn 

Had  you  been  sure  he  would  not  come  again? 


"Out  of  our  dangers  come  what  life  we  have, 
Our  single  fate,  the  separate  name  we  cherish ; 

It  was  like  Hector  simply  to  be  brave, 
And  to  have  stayed  at  home  had  been  to  perish. 


46  PENTHESILEIA 

"Now  if  this  girl  falls  by  Achilles'  sword, 
Her  beauty  undiminished  dies  secure, 

But  if  we  save  her,  what  shall  life  afford 
In  place  of  that  one  moment  high  and  pure? 

"Poets  and  priests  and  lovers  fallen  so, 

Youth  through  clear  doorways  entering  to  the 
dead, 

Would  you  take  from  them  the  immortal  woe 
And  give  safe  insignificance  instead?" 

So  on  her  battle  errand  when  the  maid 
Passed,  in  an  ecstacy  of  faith  the  crowd 

Hailed  her  their  goddess  on  divine  crusade, 
And  Priam  watched  her  passing,  young  and 
proud ; 

She,  from  her  radiance  in  the  morning  air, 
Looked  smiling  up  at  the  forlorn  old  chief 

She  came  to  rescue — at  his  scant  white  hair 
And  grey  skin  wrinkled  with  the  folds  of  grief. 


ACHILLES  AND  THE  MAIDEN 

Wind  cannot  bring  so  far  the  blood  and  dust, 
But  only  raise  your  head  up — do  you  hear 
Faint  bell-notes  from  the  plain?     Blade-stroke, 

sword-thrust, 
Shield-rattle!     They  are  fighting,  and  you  not 

there. 

He  would  not  heed  the  challenge,  would  not  stir, 
Though  none  so  well  as  he  that  signal  knew ; 
From  his  unhappy  memories  would  not  pause, 
Though  the  breeze  whispered  and  the  danger 
grew. 

No  man,  a  maiden  drives  them  from  the  field, 
A  wicked  huntress  out  of  the  cold  moon! 
She  touches  them,  they  die,  they  have  no  shield; 
What  will  you  come  to,  if  you  come  not  soon? 
47 


48  ACHILLES   AND   THE  MAIDEN 

But  he  with  bowed  head  let  the  voice  go  by, 
And  felt  rebellious  loathing,  and  behind 
Impenetrable  silence  nursed  disgust. 
This,    then,  was  this  the  great  hour  he  should 

find- 
Brief,  crowded  with  beauty,  bringing  fame? 
Beauty?     What  beauty?     Fame?     Blown  with 

the  dust! 

Take  up  your  arms,  come  down  and  fight  again, 
They  have  bidden  the  wind  carry  their  last  cry. 
You  shall  hear  now  the  curse  of  dying  men; 
What  will  you  say,  Achilles?     Must  they   die? 

It  was  the  wind  that  freshened,  or  the  wave 
Of  flight  and  terror  toward  his  station  broke; 
At  last  he  heard,  and  wearily  bound  on 
Breast-plate,  picked  up  the  shield,  the  spear  of 

oak, 

Toward  the  battle  strode  superbly  down, 
Wearing  the  armor  lightly,  a  mere  cloak, 
Easy  in  his  hand  the  spear ;  and  bold  he  went 


ACHILLES   AND   THE   MAIDEN  49 

Unhelmeted,   with  insolent  beauty  brave, 
His  body  moving  in  rhythm  magnificent. 

He  came  down  from  his  lonely  hill,  by  charred 
And  scattered  ashes  of  abandoned  fires, 
Hoof -prints  of  stamping  horses,  and  spilled  oats, 
Through  the  weird,  empty  camp,  where  yester 
night 

The  army  took  its  shelter.     Here  were  coats 
Dropped  at  the  first  alarum,  a  wine-cup 
With  half  its  ruby  burden  yet  untouched, 
And  the  ironic  dice  lay  on  the  board. 
Beyond  the  tents   he  walked  through  a  green 

calm 

Of  clover,  untrodden  meadows  poppy-sown, 
And  then  the  crowded  plain  and  the  loud  fight. 

Before  him  as  he  came  the  host  made  room — 
All  peril  over,  with  him  there,  the  one  man! 
Yet  without  shout  they  saw  him,  raised  no  cry, 
No  welcome,  so  many  bodies  lay,  for  whom 
He  came  late  to  the  rescue.     But  he  strode  by, 
Bringing  his  solitude,  and  opened  up 


50  ACHILLES   AND   THE   MAIDEN 

A  wedge  of  silence  till  he  reached  the  van. 
Then  from  the  other  side  the  headlong  foe 
Following  the  maiden    felt  him  in  the  track. 
Caught  sight  of  armor  and  his  golden  hair, 
Fled  unabashed,  and  left  those  two  alone — 
With  awe  and  terror,  both  lines  swaying  back 
Within  a  girdled  silence  gave  them  space. 
She,  when  the  battle  ceased  from  round  her,  stood 
Waiting  for  him,  a  little  thrilled  to  know 
The  moment  come  at  last,  and  see  him  there 
Splendid  as  they  had  said,  now  face  to  face. 
And  he  casually  marked  against  the  grove 
Of  slender  cypress  that  behind  her  rose, 
Her  helmet  crested,  her  corselet  glittering, 
Her  belted  sword,  the  two  spears  in  her  hand, 
Twin  javelins,  light  as  a  hunter's  dart, 
All  gleaming  against  the  shadowy  green. 
Illusive  radiance  on  that  vivid  form — 
Smoothness  to  sight   and  touch,  the  enchanted 

sheen 

Of  jade  or  porphyry — the  gold  sunbeams  threw; 
Caught  from  this  world  she  seemed,  and  wrought 

in  art, 


ACHILLES    AND   THE   MAIDEN  51 

Cut  marble  or  ivory  cameo. 
What  eyes  the  helmet  hid,  he  tried  to  guess, 
To  trace  her  body  under  the  bronzen  dress, 
He  fancied  her  heart  panting,  her  wild  pulse 
After  the  running  and  the   rain  of  blows, 
Yet  asked  again  whether  she  breathed  at  all, 
So  motionless  her  beauty  held  its  pose. 

Each  stood  on  guard  to  know  the  other's  will. 
With  unexcited  spirit,  unlifted  arm, 
He  studied  the  bright  mystery  until 
The  quiet  weighed  upon  him  like  a  charm. 
With  that  she  threw  a  spear,  a  silver  flash; 
He  caught  it  on  his  shield,  and  the  shaft  broke. 
Did   her   heart    faint    a   little,    certitude 
Fall  from  her?     She  leapt  toward  him  like  a 

flame, 

She  cast  that  other  javelin  furiously, 
And  drew  her  sword.    He  only  leaned  aside, 
Slipped    from  the  peril,  and  reaching  back  for 

aim, 
Drove  true  through  the  vain  bronze  his  matchless 

spear, 


52  ACHILLES    AND    THE   MAIDEN 

Straight  through  the  corselet  to  her  living  heart. 
It  never  left  his  hand,  she  was  so  near; 
His  fingers  on  the  weapon  felt  her  death, 
Felt  the  woman  quiver  along  the  wood. 

He  had  not  loosed  a  stream  of  fighting  wrath 
To  ride  him  lightly  over  things  like  this  — 
To  see  her  body  crumble  with  quick  breath. 
He  leaned,  and  gently  turned  the  relaxed  form, 
To  lift  the  armor  on  the  wounded  side; 
How  stubborn,  as  he  raised  it,  seemed  the  bronze ! 
And  how  to  draw  the  spear-head  out  ?    He  tried 
In  pity  not  to  disturb  the  delicate  cloth 
Blood-molded  to  her  bosom,  soft  and  warm. 
With  eyes  impulse-averted  he  untied 
The  helmet  from  the  limp  and  drooping  head, 
And  lo,  a  face  made  for  another  fate — 
Brown  hair  upon  a  white  and  queenly  brow. 
And  dreaming  lips  that  held  no  curve  of  hate, 
Eyelids  self-closed,  as  though  content  to  sleep, 
And  cheeks  with  rose-bloom  not  yet  ebbed  away ; 
Beauty  that  called  for  worship  and  the  prayers 
Of  lovers  tortured  with  their  empty  arms, 


ACHILLES    AND    THE   MAIDEN  53 

Yet  in  itself  austere,  remote,  unmoved; 
A   face  to   set    on   passion,    yet   beneath 
Archness  and  ardor,  beneath  the  golden  breasts, 
A  maiden  soul — as  at  evening  when  fleecy  clouds 
Blush  in  the  east  a  farewell  to  the  sun, 
Glides,  under   the  warmth,  untouched,  the  new 
moon. 

He  stood  up  to  his  height,  gazed  down  at  her, 
Then  stooping  yet  again  as  though  he  must, 
Took  up  his  scarlet  spear  from  where  it  lay, 
Then  gazed  once  more  on  the  face  whitening 
fast. 

He  that  had  killed  her,  found  it  ill  to  leave 
The  fragile  danger  he  had  laid  in  dust; 
Not  well  to  stay,  but  hard  to  turn  at  last 
To  thread  his  journey  through  the  evening  camp, 
Through  cheerful  noises  around  supper-fires, 
Through  laughter  of  soldiers  at  their  lucky  day, 
With  joke  and  ribald  song.     He  heard  one  say 
How  he  would  use  his  safety  after  war — 
What  sort  of  woman,  and  what  kind  of  wine. 


SIR  GRAELENT 


"I  will  ride  to  the  forest/'  Sir  Graelent  said ; 
"The  town  walls  shut  me  in,  but  the  forest 

has  clean  air, 
And  trees  have  cool  branches,  but  here  are  bitter 

tongues ; 
I  will  ride  to  the  forest,  I  shall  be  alone  there." 

He  rode  to  the  forest — he  clattered  down  the 

street 

Between  old  houses  leaning  close  and  high, 
'And   faces   at   the  window-ledge   thrust   out  to 

greet  him, 

And  mocked  him  in  his  worn  coat  riding  by. 
He  came  where  the  highway  twines  through  field 

and  vineyard, 

A  ribbon  white  and  dusty,  mile  on  mile; 
54 


SIR    GRAELENT  55 

The  men   raised  their  heads   from  working  in 

the  vines, 

And  had  their  word  about  him  and  a  smile; 
He  came  to  the  wood  with  the  trees  set  out  in 

order, 
And  old  women  tending  their  sheep  along  the 

border 
Stopped    knitting    and    looked    up    to    watch 

him  go ; 
He  turned  upon  a  narrow  path  that  promised  to 

be  lonely, 

And  rode  till  he  reached  green  quiet  broken  only 
By  near-by  waters  moving  smooth  and  slow. 

It  was  a  magic  river  that  wound  among  the  trees, 

Through  a  young  glade  sunlit  with  silver  flame ; 

Red  flowers  through  the  carpet  rose  up  in  the 

green, 
And  one  was  waiting  there  till  Sir    Graelent 

came. 

She  was  a  queen  of  faery,  and  she  wore  a  blue 
gown, 


56  SIR    GRAELENT 

It  was  for  her  the  red  flowers  rose  up  at  her 

feet, 
Her  slender  hands  were  clasped,  and  two  golden 

braids 
Forward  o'er  her  shoulders  were  falling  to 

her  feet. 

He  had  not  thought  to  find  her,  he  drew  a  sud 
den  rein, 
Spellbound  he  looked  on  her,  and  saw  how  she 

was  fair. 
Whence  she  came  he  knew  not,  he  never  asked 

her  name; 
She  was  a  queen  of  faery,  and  she  waited  for 

him  there. 
She  was  a  loveliness  beyond  words  to  measure, 

She  was  a  last  and  absolute  delight, 
More  than  you  could  dream  of,  of  beauty  in 

the  world, 
Was  standing  in  the  glade,  in  the  enchanted 

light. 

Her  eyes  were  unstartled  and  her  brow  serene, 
She  kept  a  pleasant  secret  till  he  should  come ; 


SIR    GRAELENT  57 

What  had  he  asked,   and  her  beauty  was  the 

answer? 
Spellbound  he  looked  at  her,  and  his  lips  were 

dumb. 
They  met,  as   in   a  dream  two  strange  hearts 

meeting, 

Know  they  are  strange,  yet  cannot  feel  sur 
prise — 

Come  from  afar,  yet  need  no  other  greeting 
Than  silence  of  the  lips  and  wonder  of  the 

eyes. 

Down  from  his  steed  where  the  glade  begins, 
He  stood  by  the  bridle,  too  happy    to  draw 

nigh, 

Flutter  of  a  leaf  he  heard  among  the  branches, 
Whisper  of  the  smooth  river-water  slipping  by. 
Long,  long  ago  she  knew  that  he  would  come, 

Now  that  he  was  silent,  she  did  find  it  strange ; 
Lightly  he  breathed,  and  stirred  nor  foot  nor 

finger 

Lest  the  charm  should  break,    or  the  dream 
change. 


58  SIR    GRAELENT 

Though  she  was  beautiful  beyond  speech  to  tell 

of, 

It  was  not  her  body  whereon  his  wonder  dwelt ; 
It  was  not  her  face,  though,  as  she  stood  be 
fore  him, 

Light  of  it  and  color  within  his  blood  he  felt. 
These  were  but  instruments  her  magic  was  play 
ing  on, 

To  call  up  another  beauty  in  his  soul ; 
He  looked  at  her,  and  marveled  at  the  world 

unrolling 

Within   him,  horizons  of  delight  unroll. 
Like  one  who  listens  to  a  noble  singing 

When  the  tide  of  music  lifts  the  heart  along, 
Tone  after  tone  earth-wrought  but  heaven-reach 
ing, 
And  one  forgets  the  voice,  and  goes  with  the 

song — 
So  in  the  glade,  in  silence  gazing 

On  the  tall  strange  woman  beside  the  forest 
stream, 


SIR    GRAELENT  59 

Not  her  slender  body  his  eyes  found  wonderful ; 
He  looked  at  her,  and  saw  not  her,  but  saw  a 
dream. 

"Long  have  I  sought  for  you!"  he  said,  and 

suddenly 
Remembered  he  had  never  sought  for  her  at 

all; 
Quietly  she  heard  him:  she  turned  her  stately 

head 

And  listened,  as  though  to  hear  a  far-off  call. 
"Long  have  I  waited  for  you,"    she  answered 

slowly, 
She   listened   again — "yet   I   must   leave   you 

soon" ; 
She  watched  his  eyes,  and  saw  the   quick  pain 

there, 
"Love  with  us,  at  daybreak  now,  will  die  ere 

noon! 

Easy  in  your  words  and  open  on  your  lips 
Will  you  waste  your  dream,  not  hold  it  in 
your  heart; 


60  SIR    GRAELENT 

You  will  waste  my  beauty,  I  will  wait  no  more, 

And  empty  will  the  forest  be  when  I  depart." 
"Let  me  be  silent  then,"  he  cried,  "dc  you  but 
stay; 

Leave  words   for  desire,  but  never   love  be 

spoken !" 
Faintly  she  smiled,  "We  shall  be  happy  for  a  day, 

Then  you  will  tell  it,  and  our  love  be  broken." 
Sadly  he  looked  at  her,  and  knew  it  would  be  so ; 

Silence  is  for  winter,  when  the  frost  is  come, 
But    the    high    sun    draws    blossoms    from   the 
heart — 

Living  in  her  beauty,  how  could  he  be  dumb? 
"Lady,  till  our  speech  be  handmaid  to  our  seeing, 

Till  words  give  out  again  the  eyes'  delight, 
We  cannot  seize  the  wonder  we  have  gazed  upon, 

And  half  of  beauty  escapes  our  cheated  sight !" 
Quiet  still  she  listened ;  she  too  was  sad  for  him — 

"Is  there  not  a   beauty  that  walks  the  world 

alone  ? 
Is  there  no  wonder  that  takes  the  heart  unaided, 


SIR    GRAELENT  6l 

And  sight  of  her,  and  love  of  her,  and  speech 

of  her,  are  one? 

Frail  are  the  words  we  have — frail  and  fleeting; 
Can  they  build  a  beauty  that  never  will  grow 

old? 
Keep  your  dream  in  secret  now,    or  tell  your 

dream  away ! 

For  you  have  looked  on  beauty  that  cannot 
be  told." 


II 


Graelent,  silent  lover,  came  again  to  the  town; 
Bitter  tongues  were  harmless,  scorn  was  light 

to  bear, 
For   he  had  learned  the   way   now,    he   could 

mount  his  steed 
And  ride  to  the  forest,  and  find  her  waiting 

there. 

Oft  in  the  market-place,  sometimes  in  the  court, 
He  heard  men  speaking  of  a  beauty  beyond 
price ; 


62  SIR   GRAELENT 

He  held  his  tongue  with  them,  but  his  thoughts 

ran  before  him 

To  the  tall  lady  in  her  glade  of  paradise. 
Then  he  would  take  the  white  road  between  the 

vineyards 
To  the  cool  shadows  and  the  path  through  the 

wood, 
To  where  the  placid  river  whispered,  and  red 

flowers 
Rose  in  the  grass  before  her  feet — and  there 

she  stood. 

Smoothly  he  came  to  her,  like  the  soft  waters 

Flowing  between  grassy  banks  without  foam ; 

Sure  he  was  to  find  her,  like  a  chord  of  music 

Waiting  for  the  falling  cadence  to  come  home. 

But  once  in  Spring-time,  when  the  sap  was  stir 
ring 
And    secrets   in  young   hearts   burned  to   be 

said — 

Sick   they    were   of   loneliness,    and   weary   of 
longing 


SIR    GRAELENT  63 

For  blue  eyes  that  passed  them,  or  a  golden 

head — 
When  bright  names  sounded  in  many  a  boasting 

And  a  fair  body  became  many  a  prayer, 
They    marked    how    Graelent    listened    without 

speaking, 

The  one  happy  lover  among  them  there. 
"Speak    up,    Sir    Graelent,    were     you    never 

young?" 
It  was  a  girl  mocked  him,  and  their  glee  was 

loud: 
"Don't  you  know,"  a  neighbor  said,  "Graelent 

never  loved? 
Pride  likes  an  empty  heart,  and  he  was  always 

proud." 
Their  words   were  unkind,  but  he  thought  of 

the  forest — 
"Once  he  gave  his  heart  away,  but  his   love 

was  shame." 

He  saw  the  queen  of  faery  by  the  quiet  river — 
"Once  a  woman  loved  him,  he  has  forgot  her 


64  SIR    GRAELENT 

He  cried,   "I   have  loved  beyond   your   wit  to 

guess  at, 
"I  have  looked  on  beauty  no  one  of  you  could 

see. 
Ask  me  not  her  name,  no  one  of  you  could  find 

her, 
She  is  the  queen  of    wonder,  and  she  waits 

for  me." 
"Tell  us,"  they  mocked  him,  and  his  tongue  was 

loosed. 
Sir  Graelent's  heartache!     They  drew  around 

to    hear. 
"In  a  glade  in  the   forest" — one  said  beneath 

his  breath, 
"That's   where   my   uncle   cut   fire-wood   last 

year!" 

"Grass  like  a   carpet  spread  beside  the  river, 
Sunlight  falling  silver  on  the  green  blade, 
There    she    waited    for    me" — a    rough    voice 

shouted, 

"  'Tis  Bess  the  hunter's  daughter  kissed  him 
in  the  shade!" 


SIR   GRAELENT  65 

O  for  a  word  to  bring  before  their  blindness 

All  that  her  happy  presence  said  to  him ! 
But  even  as  he  told  of  her,  the  memory  faded; 

Even  as  he  praised  her,  her  face  grew  dim. 
Like  as  a  dream  from  which  we  wake  in  rapture, 

So  clear  the  path  joy  led  us,  height  to  height, 
We  can  tell  the  plot  of  it,  but  cannot  capture 

The  riding  heart  again,  the  wings  of  the  de 
light; 
And  telling  it  too  often,  we  wear  out  at  last 

The  glamour  we  would  overtake,  the  elusive 

glory, 
Wear  away  with  telling,  the  wonder,  till  at  last 

It  is  a  dream  no  more,  but  becomes  a  story. 

"Cool  is  the  forest;  here  are  bitter  tongues; 

I  will  return  to  beauty  in  the  blessed  wood!'* 
He  came  to  the  forest,  to  the  cold  river, 

And  lonely  was  the  glade  where  once  she 
stood. 


"GREAT  VOICES   OF  THE  PAST" 

Great  voices  of  the  past  she  knows  and  loves, 

And  most  of  all  the  poets  are  her   friends, 
Such  eager  kinship  in  their  singing  moves, 

And  to  'their  ancient  mood  her  spirit  bends ; 
Surrey  his  Geraldine  to  her  makes  known, 

Sidney's  highway  of  love  her  heart  delights; 
The  faith  her  poets  held  she  makes  her  own, 

Nor  thee,  dear  Saint  whom  Chauncer  loved, 
she  slights. 

St.  Valentine,  this  lady  be  thy  care! 

The  days  are  evil,  and  thy  service  sweet 
Uncherished  dies   from   our   ungentle   race; 
Another  heart  like  hers  when  shalt  thou  meet? 

Happy  her  fate  be  ever!     With  the  prayer 
Thy  day  I  honour  and  my  lips  I  grace. 


66 


"BENEATH  THIS  BEAUTY" 

Beneath  this  beauty  when  my  spirit  swayeth 

And  with  the  praise  of  it  my  soul  is  stirred, 
Love  on  my  lips  a  wary  finger  layeth 

And  bindeth  in  my  heart  the  eager  word! 
My  heart,  that  for  love's  sake  these  long  years 
holdeth 

One  dear  desire  to  win  all  ways  of  speech, 
Whose    secret,    love   himself,     I    dreamed,    un- 
foldeth— 

O,  is  it  silence,  Love,  that  thou  wouldst  teach? 
I  have  desired  to  suffer  thy  sweet  burning 

And  prayed  thy  fiercest  blow  should  on  me 

fall; 
I  have  grown  scarred  and  wise  in  bitter  learning, 

But  not  to  love  I  never  learned  at  all. 
Now  to  thy  mischief,  Love,  add  not  this  choice — 
To  know  not  love,  or  never  use  love's  voice. 


SONG 

Thrilled  with  heavenward-flaming  fires, 

When  my  eyes  meet  yours, 
Mingled  joy  and   pain  divine 

My  prisoned  heart  endures. 
Prisoned  still  my  heart  aspires 

And  never  has  its   say, 
Till  your  dear  lips,  set  to  mine, 

Drink  my  soul  away. 


68 


"LOVE  THAT  NEVER  TOLD  CAN  BE" 

No  bird  hath  ever  lifted  note  so  clear, 
Or  poured  so  prodigal  his  lyric  breast, 
But  carried  still  some  music  from  the  nest, 

When  Winter  laid  the  seal  of  silence  there. 

No  sea  hath  ever  woo'd  the  shore  so  fair 
But  turn  of  tide  left  something  half  expressed ; 
Nor  true  love  every  burned  so  strangely  blest 

That  words  could  hold  it  all  or  heart  could  hear. 

And  yet  the  tide  will  turn  again,  and  tell 
Its  sweet  persistent  story  o'er  and  o'er — 

The  bird  take  up  the  cadence  where  it  fell, 
And  pipe  it  towards   the   ending  more  and 
more — 

And  only  love  be  inexpressible, 

The  endless  song,  the  sea  that  hath  no  shore. 


ROSE  RIME 

Fair  rose,  that  fortune  favors  so, 

So  near  her  heart  to  die, 
Her  tenderest-spoken  word  to  know, 

To  share  her  gentlest  sigh; 

I  fear  me,  rose,  we  both  shall  miss 
Joy's  perfect  measure — thou 

Who  knowest  not,  yet  hast,  the  bliss, 
And  I,   who  only  know. 


"LOVE,  THE  WINGED  LORD" 

Love,  the  winged  lord  of  art, 
That  all  sweet  song  inspires, 

First-fruits  from  the  gentle  heart 
Evermore  requires. 

Not  in  every  field  he  sows, 

lNever  sows   he   long, 
But  the  swiftest  path  he  goes 

Blossoms  into  song. 

Catch  the   flying   seed  who  may, 

Ere  the  god  go  by; 
Little  love  has  come  my  way — 

Little  song  have  I. 


PARTING 

Music's  meaning  first  is  known, 

Though  the  bird  sing  all  day  long, 

When   the   last   faint-falling  tone 
Divides  the  silence  from  the  song. 

Not  in  absence,  nor  when  face 

To  face,  thy  love  means  most  to  me, 

But  in  the  narrow  parting-space, 
The  cadence  of  felicity. 


DE  GUSTIBUS 

One  used  his  pinions  eagle-like, 

And  straight  against  the  sun  would  rise 
And  scout  among  the  stars,  and  strike 

His  quarry  from  across  the  skies; 

And  one  was  as  the  bee  that  strives 
Against  no  wind,  but  simply  blows 

Across  the  garden,  and  arrives 
Upon  an  unsuspected  rose. 


73 


"IN  MEMORY  I  HAVE  MY  WILL" 


When  in  the  garden-walk  you  stayed 
Beside  the   rose-bush,  grace  to   grace, 

I  saw  the  happy  rose  persuade 

A   sister-fragrance  in  your   face. 

Who  would  not  wish  to  pluck  it  for  you, 
So  utterly  you  twain  were  one ! 

But  my  slow  heart,  delaying  o'er  you, 
Only  wished — till  you  were  gone. 

In  memory  I  have  my  will! 

Still  in  the  garden-walk  you  stand; 
By  the  rose-bush  I  see  you  still; 

And  now  the  rose  is  in  your  hand. 


74 


75 
II 

When  in  the  garden  of  your  days 
You  took  the  scent  of  flower  and  vine — 

Your  summer-bloom  of  love  and  praise — 
And  paused  beside  this  heart  of  mine, 

I  saw  your  eyes  upon  me  darken, 

My  sorrow  dimmed  them  unaware; 

My  mirrored  hope  that  you  would  harken, 

My  frustrate  silence,  I  saw  there. 

Ah,  to  be  master  only  of 

The  rhetoric  of  memory! 
Now  in  my  dream  I  tell  my  love, 

Now  in  my  dream  you  hark  to  me. 

Ill 

And  since  you  died,  I  seek  in  vain 
Words  for  my  grief  to  labor  through; 

For  all  my  eloquence  of  pain 
Turns  inward,  and  remembers  you. 


FIREFLY 

Last  night,  in  the  garden — no  stir  of  leaves — 

A  firefly,  twinkling  from  spray  to  spray, 

Flew  to  my  lips,  and  I  brushed  it  by. 

Now  at  dawn  the  voice  of  my  love  grieves ; 

"Last  night,  dreaming  I  was  a  firefly, 

I  flew  to  your  lips,  and  you  brushed  me  away." 


THE  RETURN 

Walking  in  the  garden 

At  the  heart  of  noon, 
In  my  hand  a  flower, 

On  my  lips  a  tune, 

I  saw  a  face  before  me, 
Dim  eyes,  dim  eyes  I  knew ! 

I  saw  a  shadow-woman, 

The  garden  glanced  her  through. 

She  hid  no  branch  behind  her, 
Through  her  the  rose-bough  ran; 

She  was  a  ghostly  woman 
To  meet  a  living  man. 
77 


78  THE   RETURN 

"What  change,  what  change,  my  lover! 

Ah,  heedless  God!"  she  cried, 
"If  help  there  were  in  love  or  prayer, 

Dear  lad,  thou  hadst  not  died!" 


"  Tis  thou  art  dead/'  I  faltered, 
"The  futile  prayers  are  mine; 

My  foot  still  marks  the  garden  walk — 
No  print  nor  sound  from  thine !" 


"Lie  soft,"  she  cried,  "vext  spirit 
That  once  wert  true  and  brave!" 

Her  dim  eyes  sorrowed  on  me 
As  though  they  watched  my  grave. 


"Wouldst  thou  sell  me  as  the  living  sell, 

An  old  love  for  a  new? 
Dream  not  so  wild !     Thou  hast  no  choice — 

Lie  soft ! — the  dead  are  true. 


THE   RETURN  79 

"From  their  life-moulded  passions 

Didst  thou  dream  the  dead  were  free? 

The  rose  thou  comest  bringing 
Thou  bringest  still  to  me. 


"Wouldst  thou  sing  to  another  bosom 
Love-rhythms  phantom-fine  ? 

Still,  still  thou  comest  singing 
Thy  heartbeats  set  to  mine. 


"Yea,  though  her  magic  call  thee 
To  rise  and  put  death  by, 

Though  thy  body  walk  to  meet  her, 
Thy  perished  heart  have  I. 


"For  the  lure  the  maiden  fashions 
To  snare  the  ghost  of  thee, 

Ere  thou  wert  dead,  my  lover, 
Was  what  thou  lovedst  in  me." 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Who  is  this,  of  all  our  Voices  hushed  beyond  the 

singing  shore, 
Where  the  foamless  roll  of  silence  cradles  peace 

for  evermore, 
Who  is  this,  that  still  returning,  mourns  his 

eerie  dream  of  Aden, 
And  his  mystic,  bloodless  music  chants  the  spell 

of  lost  Lenore? 

Was  thy  singing  ever  mortal,  warmed  by  human 

fierce  desires, 

Ere  the  living  passion  flickered  into  pale  sepul 
chral  fires  ? 
Or  was  life  to  thee  but  shadow, — song  to  thee 

but  friendless  yearning, 

Thy  first  home  the  spirit  vision  whither  still  thy 
heart  aspires  ? 

80 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE  8 1 

O  thy  high  and  pallid  singing,   fugitive   from 

baffled  death, 
Surely  moves   from   phantom  lips,   and  pulses 

with  unearthly  breath ! 
Not  of  earth  thou  wert,  dead  singer, — thee 

hath  also  death  rejected? 
Hath  nor  death  nor  life  its  laurel  for  thy  song's 

ethereal  wreath? 


Changeling  of  the  Muses,  bearing  mortal  exile  all 

thy  days, 
Rapt   from  starry  heights  of   faery  to  endure 

earth's  heavy  ways, 
Alien  from  what  land,  and  pilgrim  to  what 

shrine — here  lost  and  lonely? 
Even  praise  of  thee  will  falter;  scarce  we  know 

the  man  we  praise. 

Lost  indeed  and  hither  fallen,  as  the  proud  light- 
bearer  fell, 
Out  of  harmonies  eternal,  out  of  peace  ineffable, 


82  EDGAR   ALLAN    FOE 

Into  discord,  into  darkness,  into  bitterness  in 
fernal, — 

For  to  wear  our  wingless  vesture,  for  a  soul 
like  thine  was  hell. 

Shadow-lover,  building  twilight- wo  rids  of  swift- 
enfolding  doom, 

Where  the  haunted  soul  is  mirrored  in  its  own 

demonic  gloom, 

Yet  from  utter  darkness  kindling  still  the  tragic 
flame  of  beauty, 

Till  from  death,  from  hate,  from  horror  streams 
its  melancholy  bloom; 

Dreamer  of  the   dauntless   will,  that  darkened 

soars  to  perfect  sight, 
Dauntless,  though  this  muddy  garment  weight  its 

wings  and  dull  its  flight, 
Up  from  lesser  gloom  to  lesser  gloom  a  finer 

ether  winning, 
Till  the  thought  escape  the  body  into  skies  of 

cloudless  light; 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE  83 

Shall  we  call  thee  lost,  dead  poet, — we  whose 

fate  is  kin  to  thine? 
Shadows  are  our  world,  and  phantom  half  the 

stars  that  o'er  us  shine; 
Shall  we  call  him  lost,  who  faithful  toward  the 

light  of  beauty  beacons, 
And   our   days   his  mystic   singing  floods   with 

loveliness  divine? 


RHYTHMS 

Poet,  you  that  build  the  rhyme 
Dear  to  the  Muse,  the  lovable  maiden, 
Breathe  again  the  beauty-laden 

Breath  of  wisdom's  earlier  time! 


Now  the  people  fancy  more 
Popular  art,  sensational  poses, 
Not  the  rarer-chosen  roses, 

Not  the  laurel  Tennyson  wore; 


But  to  you  my  wreaths  belong, 
Wrought  of  Apollo's  hyacinth-treasure, 
You  that  tread  to  every  measure 

Dainty  steps  of  delicate  song. 


84 


ECHOES 


Thou  on  the  stars  divine 
Gazest,  O  star  of  mine! 
Would  that  I  were  the  skies, 
To  gaze  on  thee  with  many  eyes. 


II 


A  star  of  dawn  thou  wast  to  me ; 
Now  I  have  twilight,  missing  thee : 
But  O,  how  bright  the  spirits  are, 
Shined  on  by  thee,  their  evening  star! 


ON  READING  THE   SYMPOSIUM 

To  George  Edward  Woodberry 
Plato,  what  splendid  names  I  link  with  thine ! 

My  poets  all,  who  had  from  thee  their  dream : 
Sweet  Spenser  first,  who  of  our  English  line 

Love  earliest  learned  and  Beauty  made   his 

theme ; 
Milton  the  next,  from  whom  no  veiled  sun 

Could  Wisdom  hide  nor  Virtue's  lamp  remove ; 
Then  Shelley,  heart  of  hearts!  and  nearest,  one 

Loyal  to  these,  who  bred  me  in  their  love. 

He  taught  me  Shelley,  who  his  own  youth  nurst, 
Taught  me  the  loftier  music  Milton  sings, 
Spenser  he  taught,  and  thee  through  these  to 

trace ; 

Now  have  I  felt  thee  mine,  as  the  eaglet  first 
Craves  the  deep  heaven,  and  clothes  his  heart 

with  wings 

To  join  the  star-wide  hunting  of  his  race. 
86 


CATULLUS 

When  we  can  sound  the  ocean  from  the  beach, 
Counting  how  oft  the  waves  rise  and  return, 
Then  from  thy  words,  Catulus,  we  may  learn 

All  thy  heart  surging  on  the  bounds  of  speech. 

What    swift    design    the    lightning-fork    would 

teach, 

The  startled  eye  not  wholly  can  discern; 
So  into  sudden  words  thy  sorows  burn, 

So  darkness  has  them  back  beyond  our  reach. 


Had  thy  love  waned,  clear  were  its  history; 
After  the  tide  the  cliff  informs  the  skies 

How  the  majestic  waters  scarred  the  stone; 
But  thou  from  life  passed  to  proud  mystery, 
As  when  a  rose  escapes  the  praise  of  eyes 
And  all  night  long  blooms  to  itself  alone. 

87 


CARLO   LEONARDO   SPERANZA 

Where  the  strong  tide  bears  you,  Master, 

Silent  freight  from  our  lonely  shore, 
Where  the  dim  sail,  fast  and  faster 

Lessening,  fades  forevermore — 
What  welcome  waits  on  what  pale  strand? 

Do  ghosts  you  loved  make  shadowy  room 
For  the  soldier  come  to  his  long-lost  land 

Bringing  his  battle-laurels  home? 

Sentinel,  outpost,  they  shall  greet  you 

Home  at  last  from  the  bleak  frontier. 
Comrade,  shall  the  captains  meet  you — 

You  who  carried  their  standards  here; 
Deep  in  your  nature  Dante's  belief, 

And  Pulci's  laughter  in  your  eyes, 
Midwinter  gloom  of  Tasso's  grief, 

Sunlight  of  Ariosto's  skies. 
88 


CARLO    LEONARDO    SPERANZA  89 

Tears  on  your  cheek,  as  they  ever  started 

When  face  to  face  we  gave  you  praise? 
Ay  me!     Many's  the  time,  child-hearted 

Master,  we  gave  you  tearless  days ! 
Nor  praise  nor  silence  sapped  your  will, 

But  from  the  fortune  of  your  birth 
Exiled  and  strange,  you  bore  life  still 

With    human-sweet    Chaucerian   mirth. 

Master  of  antique  courtly  bearing 

Though  uncourtly  fate  befell, 
Farewell,  who  go  your  long  wayfaring — 

Safe  to  the  shore  of  rest,  farewell ! 
How  could  we  wish  more  years  to  you 

Where   Song,  outwearied  and  baffled,   faints, 
And  Beauty,  heard  of  a  random  few, 

Utters  but  small  and  timid  plaints? 

Ah,  the  still  small  voice  we  cover 
With  silly  fret  and  cheap  uproars; 

Only  comes  the  silence-lover 

Death,  as  of  old,  through  quiet  doors 


90  CARLO    LEONARDO    SPERANZA 

So  quietly  you  slipt  away 

And  carried  from  ignoble  stress 

Thoughts  graceful  as  Italian  day, 
Acts  of  Italian  gentleness. 


TO  A  POET  IN  THE  MEDITERRANEAN 

Master  who  knowest  song,  the  spell  of  mystical 

rhythm, 
The  lure  of  the  cry  of  the  soul,  the  beat  of  her 

mounting  wings, 
Lover  of  poets,  and  lover  of  youth,  and  lover  of 

freedom, 

Lift  for  us  over  the  sea  the  song  that  no  one 
sings ! 

Who  hath  sung  of  the  hour  that  stalks  the  land 

like  a  phantom, 
The  fear  that  starts  at  its  shadow,  and  turns 

on  itself,  and  is  dumb? 

And  the  land  that  outbraves  her  fate  with  in 
destructible  beauty — 

When  will  the  singer  to  praise  her,  lover  and 
poet  come  ? 


92         TO  A  POET  IN  THE  MEDITERRANEAN 

Mediterranean  wanderer,  haunting  the  shrines  of 

the  poets, 
Surges  and  strains  no  homeward  prayer  in  thy 

heart  for  the  free — 

There  where  earth  and  ocean  plead  for  the  free 
dom-lovers, 

Torrent  and  crag  for  Byron,  for  Shelley  the 
stars  and  the  sea? 

Never  so  far  they  wandered,  never  so  drear  their 

exile 
But  their  hearts   still  beat  in   England,  and 

still  her  need  was  near; 
How    they    would    bid   thee,   poet,    harken   thy 

country's  anguish, 

If  thou  so  far  canst  hear  it,  or  carest  at  all 
to  hear ! 

What  Vergilian  odors   of  earth,  what  silvery- 

fountained 

Garden  that  lulled  Catullus's  heart-ache  draws 
thee  now, 


TO  A  POET  IN  THE  MEDITERRANEAN        93 

Where  olive  and  ilex  bear  their   freight  of  a 

poet's  blossoms — 

Breath  and  blood  of  the  Muses  in  the  scent 
and  sap  of  the  bough? 

Would  thou  wert  here,  my  poet,  where  rioting 

orchards  take  us, 
Meadowy  dreams  waylay  us  that  lurk  in  the 

mothering  loam, 
And  over  the  hillroads  set  with  whitening  shoals 

of  laurel, 

Clear  as  the  heaven  of  Italy,  the  Northern 
skies  of  home ! 

Comrades  that  walk  beside  me  have  left  their 

hearts  behind  them 
In  the  long  Virginia  valley,  on  the  Carolina 

hill; 
Love,  to  the  last  horizon,  beggarly  pleads  to  be 

uttered, 

And  thou,  the  voice  God  gave  us,  art  wander 
ing,  wandering  still! 


94         TO  A  POET  IN  THE  MEDITERRANEAN 

Thou   hast   the   shrines   of   silence,   the   ghosts 

that  cannot  answer, 
The  paths  that  would  not  miss  thee,  though 

one  less  pilgrim  came; 
Here  are  the  passion,  the  hope  of  the  song  that 

craves  the  singer, 

And  the  hearts  that  are  waiting,  waiting  to  love 
him  into  fame. 


WILDWOOD 
In  Memory  of  Edward  Hitchcock 

Let  us  go  up  to  Wildwood, 

Haven  on  the  starry  hill, 
Where  one  by  one  beneath  their  names 

Men  we  knew  lie  still; 
Still  as  the  shadows  touch  them 

And  the  west  pales  from  its  red; 
Still  in  the  fresh  September  night 

The  mist  creeps  on  the  dead. 
Grey  mist  and  green  earth-cover 

Between  the  dead  and  the  skies, 
Or  the  sunset  on  their  cheek  would  blush, 

The  dawn  would  light  their  eyes; 
Half  to  the  east  are  sentinel, 

Half  are  a  watch  in  the  west; 
And  the  trees  stand  above  them  all, 

Rooted  deep  in  rest. 

95 


96  WILDWOOD 

The  branch  that  takes  the  weather, 

And  moves  in  rain  or  sun, 
Lays  hold  below  on  buried  men 

And  their  two  lives  are  one. 
Is  it  ghosts  that  talk,  or  branches 

Planted  in  Wildwood's  trust, 
Who  by  the  open  grave  rebuke 

The  solemn  "Dust  to  dust"  ? 

Why  hurt  with  mournful  speech — 
Our  pleasant  comfort,  Brother, 
That  children  of  one  mother 

Shall  mingle  each  with  each? 
Is  it  ghosts  that  walk  in  Wildwood, 

Or  only  living  trees, 
That  shimmer  past  beneath  the  stars 

And  touch  us  with  the  breeze  ? 
This  tender,  frail  beseeching, 

This  presence  tremulous, 
Is  it  man  to  earth  outreaching, 

Is  it  earth  that  yearns  to  us? 
Let  us  go  up  to  Wildwood 

And  think  on  men  we  knew, 


WILDWOOD  97 

Who  from  the  peace   wherein  they  lie, 
Brother  to  earth  and  tree  and  sky, 
Still  through  quenchless  love  draw  nigh 
And  watch  to  keep  us  true. 

The  day  is  ended  of  boyish  greeting 

On  the  village  street,  in  the  college  halls, 
The  summer-scattered  comrades  meeting 

With  laugh  and   jest  and  happy  calls, 
Ah,  single  in  the  glee  and  riot, 

Who  is  this  boy  with  shining  eyes 
That  in  a  manful  cloak  of  quiet 

Wraps  his  tumult  of  surprise? 
Through  surges  of  delirious  clamor 

Aloof  with  his  new  thoughts  he  moves, 
And,  lonely,  sees  in  brighter  glamour 

The  household  of  his  homely  loves. 
He  feels  with  unsuspected  power; 

No  nerve  seems  habit-worn  or  dim ; 
Edged  with  a  weird-illumined  wonder, 

All  sights   and  sounds  take  hold  of  him; 


98  WILD  WOOD 

The  hillsides   from  the  chapel  tower, 

How  the  bell  haled  the  hours  by, 
How  his  room  looked,  and  the  valley  yonder, 

He  will  remember  till  he  die. 
This  answer  to  the  world  that  calls  him, 

This  reach  of  heart,  shall  he  outgrow? 
This  spirit  infinitely  thrilling 

Ever  be  dull?     We  cannot  know; 
Keen-thoughted  now,  with  quick  desires, 

Ah,  for  a  friend  to  walk  beside, 
Through  the  fierce  dividing  fires 

Where  the  fate  of  youth  is  tried! 
Would  not  the  eyes  that  watched  this  venture 

Kindle  to  judgment  less  and  less? 
Would  not  the  voice  of  cheer  or  censure 

Sound  at  last  of  wistfulness? 
Let  us  go  up  to  Wildwood, 

Star-home  of  faithful  men, 
And  bid  the  new  earth  lightly  cover 
Boyhood's  most  forgiving  lover, 
Such  a  friend,  the  wide  world  over, 

Boyhood  shall  not  find  again. 


WILDWOOD  99 

Who  is  this  walks  the  Wildwood  road 

In  the  soft  starlight, 
Who  plies  his  staff,  his  shoulders  stooping, 

And  hurries  through  the  night? 
The  sombre  hat,  broad  brim,  high  crown; 

The  long  hair  white  with  many  snows; 
The  prophet  beard  that  squarely  down 

A  span's  length  on  his  bosom  flows; 
Winthrop's  counsellor,  or  Bradford's, 

Comrade  of  Cotton  Mather's  men, — 
What  Puritan,  what  Pilgrim  Father 

Is  summoned  from  his  rest  again? 
He  strikes  his  staff  with  quick  impatience, 

Yet  we  hear  nothing  meet  the  ground; 
His  lips — what  errand  troubles  him? — 

Move  and  mutter  without  sound. 
His  bent  head  suddenly  he  raises, 

He  takes  us  sharply  in  his  view, 
He  sights  at  us  along  his  beard, — 

He  is  the  man  we  knew! 
Into  the  wistful  phantom  eyes 

We  ask — ah  me,  without  avail ! 


ICO  WILDWOOD 

We  gaze — we  almost  hear  once  more 

His  sudden,  sharp,  emphatic  hail. 
He  will  not  tarry, — well  we  know 

His  trouble  and  his  journey's  end; 
Yonder  a  boy  away  from  home 

Has  need  of  him  for  friend! 
Ah,  lad,  could  you  but  see  him  here, 

Could  he  but  find  you  with  his  love, 
The  passion  of  the  forest-breath 
Would  draw  you  hillward  till  your  death, 
The  yearning  of  the  earth  beneath 

And  the  clean  stars  above. 

Trees  that  stand  in  Wildwood, 

How  firm  your  love  endures, 
Now  he,  your  best  interpreter, 

Mingles  his  life  with  yours. 
We  cannot  tell  you  twain  apart, 

Tree-lover  from  the  trees, 
Who  move  beneath  the  stars  together 

And  touch  us  with  the  breeze. 


CHERRY-BLOSSOM 

I 

Easter  in  the  Pelham  hills — Easter  late,  as  Pel- 
ham  likes — 
Northern  boughs  need  time  enough  to  sprout 

their  tardy  cones  and  spikes ! 
Checkered  squares  of  shimmering  green  prom 
ise  faintly,  one  by  one, 
Where  the  orchards,  long  besieged,  surrender 

to  the  ardent  sun. 

From  dawn  till  eve  the  promise  ripens,  chang 
ing  tints  from  noon  to  noon, 
And  through  the  mist  of  breathing  things  nightly 

climbs  the  Paschal  moon. 
Oh,  were  you  now  in  Amherst,  it's  walking 

you'd  be  now 

The  pathway  up  the  chapel  hill,  and  a  white 
tree  crowns  the  brow ! 
101 


102  CHERRY-BLOSSOM 

It  rises  from  the  moonlight — still  foam  from  a 

waveless  sea — 
And  Amherst  boys  are  walking  there,  beneath  the 

cherry-tree. 
It  rises  from  a  random  thought — old  love  from 

an  old  perfume — 

And  Amherst  boys  that  are  far  away  still  walk 
beneath  the  bloom. 

II 

Easter  in  the  Pelham  hills,  Easter  blossoms  as  of 

yore, 
And  earth,  that  bears  the  bloom  anew,  maiden 

seems    forevermore. 
Yet  what  if  earth  remembers,  when  the  warm 

familiar  rain, 
Driving  in  a  joyous  fury,  stirs  her  languid 

blood  again, 
Stirs  the  sleeping  branch  where  beauty  folded 

close  in  darkness  shrouds, 
And  from  every  bud  the  cherry-blossoms  burst 

in  snowy  clouds  ? 


CHERRY-BLOSSOM  IO3 

You  cannot  bloom  so  strangely,  O  phantom 
tree  I  love, 

But  my  heart,  like  earth,  remembers  where- 

f  rom  your  beauty  throve — 
Perished   Spring,   and   Spring  that's   here,   and 

Spring  that's  still  to  be, 

And  o'er  them  all  the  Paschal  light — and,  lo,  my 
cherry-tree ! 

Your  sailing  boughs  are  wrapped  in  dreams, 
your  flower  is  white,  like  truth; 

Boyhood  walks  beneath  your  branches ;  under 
neath  your  shade  is  youth. 


WHIP-POOR-WILL 

We  traveled  through  the  soundless  night 

And  breathed  the  fragrant  June, 
Tumultous  fragrance,  flooded  bright 

With  an  unwaning  moon; 
Till  from  the  whitened  field  the  wood 

Rose  dark  along  the  hill, — 
And  there  with  sudden  joy  we  stood 

To  hear  thee,  whip-poor-will! 

0  Bird,  O  Wonder!     Long  and  high 
Thy  measured  question  calls! 

1  marvel,  till  thy  perfect  cry 
Almost  too  perfect  falls. 

What  art  thou  singing,  voice  divine, 
Heart  of  the  poignant  night? 

What  utter  loveliness  is  thine, 
Of  suffering  or  delight? 
104 


WHIP-POOR-WILL  105 

Delight  too  lovely,  all  but  pain, 

Would  thy  frail  spirit  pour? 
Would  sorrow,  in  thy  perfect  strain, 

Be  joy  forevermore? 

Thou  hadst  no  answer  but  thy  song — 

Clear  as  the  soft  June  light, 
Sweet  as  the  fragrant  earth,  and  long 

As  that  immortal  night. 


YOUTH  DYING 

Ye   who   love   youth,   bring   tears    and   aching 

hearts ; 

For  now  the  dark  hour  calls,  and  youth  departs, 
Where  the  red  scythe  swings  close  o'er  crowd 
ed  fields, 

And  stroke  by  vivid  stroke  the  moment  yields 
Our  bravest,  our  most  beautiful,  our  most  loved. 
Against  such  loveliness  Time  would  have  moved 
Gently,  to  do  his  work  with  gradual  grace, 
Marking  with  all  but  unseen  lines  the  face, 
Whitening  the  hair  and  making  dim  the  eye. 
Love,  feeling  the  slow  change,  "Can  beauty  die  ?" 
Would  ask,  and  mourn  in 'poet-strain  youth's 

dying. 

But  now  the  bullet's  speed  outwings  Time's 
flying; 

106 


YOUTH    DYING  1 07 

The  bursting  shell  makes  haste ;  the  poisoned  air 
Brings  darkness,  though  the  wild  eyes  start  and 
stare : 

And  song  is  stilled,  so  close  the  horrors  break, 
Only  youth's  name  repeating,  for  love's  sake. 


Over  wide  seas  and  far  away  youth  dies, 
Yet  here  on  us  the  growing  shadow  lies ; 

First  the  brown  khaki  spreading  through  the 

room, 

As  one  by  one  death  brings  his  hopes  to  bloom ; 
Then  vacant  seats,  and  thoughts   of  youth  at 

drill, 

And  sense  of  near  disaster  mounting  still, 
And  wonder  if  these  rooms  again  shall  fill 
With  boys  young-hearted — or  only  phantom 

men 

To  their  accustomed  seats  shall  come  again, 
Haunting  young  hearts  to  follow  where  they  led. 


108  YOUTH    DYING 

Ye  that  love  youth,  come  ere  their  hour  be  sped, 
And  gazing  in  their  eyes,  behold  if  hate 
Drive  them,  or  reckless  pride  bring  on  their 

fate; 

No  hatred  dwells  in  them,  but  quietness, 
Slow  hearts  to  curse,  and  ready  hands  to  bless, 
Slowness  to  cruelty,  slowness  to  shame, 
And  readiness  to  die.    The  dark  hour  came 
Thwarting  with  malice  their  supreme  desires, 
To  kindle  the  ancient  torch  with  clearer  fires, 
More  poignant  music,  the  new  world  set  to 

song, 

And  art  with  modern  pulses  beating  strong, 
Knowledge  and  justice  free  at  every  door, 
No  more  disease,  and  poverty  no  more, 

And  man,  their  brother,  by  their  aid  to  rise; 
Such  dreams,  not  hatred,  smoulder  in  their 

eyes, 

Such  hopes  the  kindred  stars  above  them  rouse, 
Such  starlike  loves — tfue  lips  and  happy  vows. 


YOUTH   DYING  IOQ 

Their  hearts  are  like  the  hearts  of  those  with 

whom 

They  share  youth's  dying;  only  a  swifter  doom 
At  Antwerp,  at  Liege,  ended  such  dreams ; 
Such  marching  youth  as  theirs  from  London 

streams, 
From     Sydney,     from     Cape     Town,     from 

Montreal, 
From  Edinburgh,  most  beautiful  of  all — 

Such  hearts,  whom  death  called  from  their 

hopes  away; 
Paris,  twice  great  in  trial,  more  brave  and 

gay 

The  darker  grew  the  danger,  in  the  wrack 
Gave  up  her  youth  and  turned  the  peril  back; 
Florence    and    Rome,    firm    in    accomplished 

glory, 

Cities  eternal,  set  in  timeless  story, 
And  many  a  hamlet  on  far  Russian  slopes 
That  dreamed  of  forward  time  and  new-born 
hopes — 


110  YOUTH    DYING 

Death  called  to  them,  to   us:     "Now  come 

away; 

When  Youth  is  ready,  why  should  Age  delay? 
Mourn   not   for   these;   why   grieve,   when   all 
must  go !" 

Ye  that  love  youth,  ah,  what  of  youth  the  foe ! 
Alas,  man's  folly,  and  the  mindless  sin 
That  bade   this   strife   of   youth   with   youth 

begin! 

They,  too,  imagined  a  new  world;  they,  too, 
Had  dreams  to  brood  on,  and  their  work  to  do; 
Hate  came  not  easy  to  them,  nor  their  flesh 
Yearned  to  be  dust  again;  only  a  mesh 
Of  ancient  lies  ensnared  them — die  they  must, 
And  their  true  empire  withers  in  their  dust. 

Ye  that  love  youth,  ah,  not  alone  they  perish 
Whom    the    sword    covets    and    the    ravens 

cherish ; 
We  who  remain  to  win  the  towers  of  truth, 


YOUTH    DYING  III 

How  fares  our  battle,  with  no  aid  from  youth — 
Our  battle  with  the  darkness  evermore? 
Age  yields  the  torch  and  follows,  youth  before 

Lifts  it — but  in  what  hands  now  shall  it  rise? 

The  world  grows  old,  time  darkens,  and  youth 
dies. 

Ye  that  love  youth,  mourn  not  with  tears,  but 

pray 

Curses  on  the  black  hearts  who  willed  this  day, 
Who  willed  that  youth  should  die,  or,  being 

blind, 

Pulled  down  pillars  of  wrath  on  lost  mankind. 
May   they   know   the   last   foulness   they   have 

wrought ; 
May  their  huge  guilt  come  to  them  thought  by 

thought, 

Like  water  dropping  on  the  shaven  skull ; 
May  their  racked  conscience,  quickened  to  the 

full, 

Build  a  new  hell  for  their  new  depths  of  crime, 
Till,  thinking  of  themselves  throughout  all  time, 


112  YOUTH    DYING 

Their  plea  shall  reach  up  to  the  Crucified 
To  die  by  their  own  poison,  as  youth  died. 

Nay,  let  them  die  and  pass  and  be  forgot, 
Our  grief  die,  and  our  wrath,  but  perish  not 
The  justice-loving,  the  crusading  heart, 
This  will  of  youth  to  take  the  righteous  part. 
So  youth  shall  pass  through  death  and  still  live 

on; 

Youth  dies  not — 'tis  the  shadowed  hour  is  gone; 
To  these  rooms  shall  the  springing  steps  re 
turn, 

And  radiant  the  familiar  eyes  shall  burn, 
New  beauty  gathering  round  us,  and  new  truth, 
New    wisdom,    and    new    kindness — yea,    new 

youth ! 

Then  not  alone  the  supreme  soul  of  France 
Shall   light  new   paths   for  the   new   world's 

advance ; 

Beethoven  then  shall  stir  with  tragic  power 
The  children  of  men  dying  at  this  hour; 

Goethe  shall  speak  to  them — and  they  shall 
hear 


YOUTH    DYING  113 

Their  youth  true-mirrored  by  the  poet  seer; 
And  smile  a  little  at  the  note  of  strife 
In  Heine,  who  made  such  hard  work  of  life. 
Yea,  let  us  pass  with  the  dark  hour  of  hate, 
So  wisdom  come  at  last — though  late — how 

late! 

And  youth  be  free  to  follow  deathless  wars, 
Ardent  for  love,  still  striving  for  the  stars. 


THE  CITY  FLAG 

Flag  of  our  hope,  out  of  our  heritage  woven, 

Flag  for  a  storied  city,  forever  new, 
What  shall  you  mean  to  the  myriads  you  wave 

over? 

What  master-loves  shall  be  lifted  up  in  you? 
Strangely  will  you  greet  the  endless  dream  the 

city  harbors, 
Greet  the  astonished  eyes  the  ships  bring  to 

the  city  shore, 
Greet  the  adventurous  hearts  with  surprise  of 

familiar  welcome, 

Weird  as  a  face  remembered,  yet  never  seen 
before. 

Here  where  the  rivers  divide,  where  the  eastern 

bridges 

Carry    their    ant-like    streams,    where    crag 
upon  crag 

114 


THE   CITY   FLAG  115 

The  walls  of  Aladdin  gleam  with  sunlit  windows, 
Here,   looking   up,   they   shall   look   on   you, 

bright  flag. 

No  banner  of  ancient  traffic,  realm  of  the  Nether 
lands,  rule  of  England, 
Ghost  of  adventure  long  ago,  nor  of  names 

gone  down  with  the  past ; 
Flag  of  a  nobler  faring,   flag  of  the  port   of 

vision, 

They  shall  look  up — and  behold!  their  mirage 
come  true  at  last ! 


Here  in  their  hearts'  horizon  they  find  haven, 

Dawns  that  lured  them  hither,  here  they  find ; 
Here  is  the  threshing-floor  of  the  tireless  spirit, 

Here  on  new  bread  feeds  the  eternal  mind — 
Infinite  purpose,  infinite  reach,  infinite  aspira 
tion, 

Desire  of  the  starlike  beauty  born  of  the  com 
mon  dust  of  things, 


Il6  THE    CITY    FLAG 

Beauty  changing  the  restless  street  with  faery 

glamour, 

Lifting  the  city  towers  light  as  a  song  with 
wings. 

Flag  of  our  fathers,  out  of  our  heritage  woven, 

Flag  for  a  city  of  hope,  forever  young, 
Fling  to  the  winds  of  earth  our  ageless  chal 
lenge, 
Skyward  man's  faith  in  man  once  more  is 

flung. 
Still  may  the  ships  come  riding  home,  thronged 

with  alien  faces 
That  yearn  with  light  disguised,  that  glow  with 

unsuspected  power, 
Till  our  happy  eyes,  grown  old,  look  up  and  see 

you  waving 

Welcome  to  younger  days  and  newer  dreams 
than  ours. 


DEDICATION 

When  imperturbable  the  gentle  moon 

Glides  above  war  and  onslaught  through  the 

night, 
When  the  sun  burns  magnificent  at  noon 

On  hate  contriving  horror  by  its  light, 
When  man,  for  whom  the  stars  were  and  the 

skies, 
Turns   beast   to   rend   his    fellow,   fang   and 

hoof — 
Shall  we  not  think,  with  what  ironic  eyes 

Nature  must  look  on  us  and  stand  aloof? 
But  not  alone  the  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars, 

Shining  unharmed  above  man's  folly  move; 

For  us  three  beacons  kindle  one  another 

Which  waver  not  with  any  wind  of  wars — 

We  love  our  children  still,  still  them  we  love 

Who  gave  us  birth,  and  still  we  love  each  other. 

117 


AT  THE  FRONT 
French  Army,  January-March,  1918 

Is  this  the  front — this  level  sweep  of  life, 

This  pageant  without  pulse  of  haste  or  fear? 
Can  this  calm  exercise  be  mortal  strife? 

Is  the  last  reach  of  passion  measured  here? 
We  looked  for  angry  blade  and  poisonous  breath 

Striking  the  floor  of  judgment,  flail  and  fan; 
Here    lurked,    we    thought,    crude    agonies    of 
death,— 

But  here,  in  one  wide  dignity,  is  man. 
Others  behind  the  conflict,  safe  and  far, 
Still  wage  with  lips  their  travesty  of  war; 

We  catch  the  rumor  when  the  cannon  cease. 
Here  at  the  front,  when  most  the  cannon  rage, 
The  dream-touched  actors  on  this  mighty  stage 

In  silence  play  their  parts,  and  seem  at  peace. 
118 


AT   THE    FRONT 


II 

Framed  in  with  battle,  this  weird  pantomime, 

This    dignity   of    action,    conjures    up 
Shades  of  old  heroes — Lancelot  in  his  prime, 

Galahad,  questing  for  the  holy  cup, 
Beautiful  Hector  marching  to'  his   fate, 

Tristram  and  Palamides,  rivals  twain, 
And  Roland  sounding  his  proud  horn  too  late — 

These  quiet  actors   play  these  parts   again. 
And  in  the  lull  the  critics   far  away, 
Who  have  not  seen,  nor  ever  read,  this  play, 

Who  cannot  act,  who  never  trod  the  stage — 
Their  quarrel  mingles  with  the  threatening  cry 
Of  the  scene-shifters  watching  Roland  die, 

Who  seize  the  moment  for  a  better  wage. 


120  AT    THE    FRONT 


III 

If  this  world  be  a  stage,  what  hours  we  give 

To  tedious  make-up  in  the  tiring-room; 
How  simply  comes  at  last  our  cue  to  live, 

How,  ere  we  know  it,  we  enact  our  doom! 
The  wisdom  that  impels  us  to  the  play 

Is  patient  with  us  while  we  choose  our  parts, 
But  without  warning  sounds  our  judgment  day; 

The  curtain  rises — life,  the  drama,  starts. 
How  late  it  starts!     Ere  this  grim  curtain  rose. 
How  long  we  practised  attitude  and  pose, 

Disguise  of  accent,  costume,  mood  or  mind! 
Yet  in  this  inventory  of  our  art, 
Living  at  last,  we  play  our  naked  heart; 

How  brief  a  reckoning  counts  us  with  our  kind ! 


AT   THE   FRONT  121 

IV 

If  character  be  fate,  no  need  to  ask 

Who  set  the  stage,  who  cast  you  for  the  role ; 
Put  on  what  man  you  are,  put  off  the  mask, 

Put  on  the  tragic  pattern  of  your  soul, 
At  last  be  true;  no  gesture  now  let  spring 

But  from  supreme  sincerity  of  art; 
Let  him  who  plays  the  monarch  be  a  king, 

Who  plays  the  rogue  be  perfect  in  his  part. 
So  when  this  hour  had  rung,  the  scene  began. 
One  played  the  rash,  one  played  the  patient  man, 

And  one,  the  hero,  drew  the  dragon's  fangs; 
One  heard  death's  bugler  calling,  and  obeyed; 
And  one,  a  rose-cheeked  boy,  the  martyr  played ; 

One  played  the  traitor  well — see  where  he 
hangs. 


122  AT   THE   FRONT 

V 

We  yet  may  play  more  roles  than  we  believed, 

Since  to  himself  at  last  each  man  is  known, 
Since  now  the  actor  studies  undeceived 

The  part  he  learned,  and  lived,  and  has  out 
grown. 
And  those,  the  few  and  flawless,  the  sublime 

Whose    poignance    of    perfection    strikes    us 

dumb — 
Even  for  themselves,  in  the  surprise  of  time, 

Doubt  not  another  reckoning  will  come. 
"Comrades,  we  shall  rehearse  more  wisely — yea, 
There  shall  be  nobler  persons  in  our  play, 

We  shall  rebuild  the  plot  on  kindlier  laws." 
So  at  the  front  they  act,  and  see,  and  ponder, 
And  win  with  simple  gratitude  and  wonder, 

Peace  in  themselves,  which  is  their  sole  ap 
plause. 


APPARITION 

I 

I  walked  my  fastest  down  the  twilight  street; 

Sometimes  I  ran  a  little,  it  was  so  late; 
At  first  the  houses  echoed  back  my  feet, 

Then  the  path  softened  just  before  our  gate. 
Even  in  the  dusk  I  saw,  even  in  my  haste, 
Lawn-tracks  and  gravel  marks.   "That's  where 

he  plays; 

The  scooter  and  the  cart  these  lines  have  traced, 
And  Baby  wheels  her  doll  here,  sunny  days." 
Our  door  was  open;  on  the  porch  still  lay 
Ungathered    toys;    our   hearth-light    cut    the 

gloam ; 

Within,  round  table-candles,  you — and  they. 
And   I  called  out,   I   shouted,   "I  am  come 

home!" 

At  first  you  heard  not,  then  you  raised  your  eyes, 

Watched  me  a  moment — and  showed  no  surprise. 

123 


124  APPARITION 


II 

Such  dreams  we  have  had  often,  when  we  stood 

Thought-struck  amid  the  merciful  routine, 
And  distance  more  than  danger  chilled  the  blood. 

When  we  looked  back  and  saw  what  lay  be 
tween  ; 
Like  ghosts  that  have  their  portion  of  farewell, 

Yet  will  be  looking  in  on  life  again, 
And  see  old  faces,  and  have  news  to  tell, 

But  no  one  heeds  them ;  they  are  phantom  men. 
Now  home  indeed  and  old  loves  greet  us  back, 
Yet — shall  we  say  it? — something  here  we  lack, 

Some  reach  and  climax  we  have  left  behind, 
And  something  here  is  dead,  that  without  sound 
Moves  lips  at  us  and  beckons,  shadow-bound, 

But  what  it  means,  we  cannot  call  to  mind. 


HOSPITAL 


They  who  look  up  from  white  beds  in  the  ward, 

Handless, ;  disfeatured,  pitifully  lamed, 
Seem    often    those    whom    suffering    least    has 
marred, 

he  body  broken  but  the  soul  unmaimed.  / 
Even  it  seems  a  richer  life  is  theirs, 
As  though  these  shattered  hours  had  left  them 

wise; 

Even  a  ghostlike  smile  the  poor  mouth  wears, 
As  though  a  pleasure  took  them  by  surprise. 
Is  it  that  to  have  walked  the  road  of  pain, 
Or  fainted  half-way,  neighbor  to  the  slain, 

And  still  to  be  alive,  makes  life  more  sweet? 
Is  it,  we  ask,  that  when  the  reckoning  calls  us, 
Merely  to  face  whatever  doom  befalls  us 
Is  peace  of  mind,  and  more  than  hands  or  feet? 
125 


SATAN 

In  the  last  hour,  the  utter  lapse  of  time, 
Shrill  from  the  vast  the  voice  of  Satan  cried — 
"Hail,  Lord  of  Heaven,  Almighty  Loneliness, 
World-maker!  thou  who  not  in  love  but  wrath 
Didst  shape  this  plot  of  sham  infinitudes — 
Earth,  the  day-fire,  stars  and  the  useless  moon, 
And  man  and  creatures  meaner,  and  called  them 

good! 
Good  for  how  long?    Lord,  Lord,  shall  goodness 

end? 
Where  shines  the  light  that  healed  thy  want  of 

me, 

Light-bearer   once,   thy   shadow-bringer   now? 
Behold,  the  unsteady  sun,  now  glow,  now  gloom, 
Like  a  spent  coal  blown  on  by  wind  and  sand, 
Is  quenched  with  sifting  dust  of  the  dead  stars. 
Where   is   that   world    for   which   the   heavens 

were  made, 

126 


SATAN  127 

That  globe  unquiet  of  the  lava-spume 
Which  from  thine  anger  dript  and  cooled  itself, 
That  world  whereon  thy  breath  malign,  thy  vast 
Ponderous  loom  of  motion,  force,  and  rhythm 
Stroking  the  planet-paths,  at  length  begot 
Man  in  thy  image,  infinitely  small, 
To  squirm,  and  breed,  and  marvel  at  his  race — 
Even  of  us,  much  more  of  things  much  less, 
To  take  the  measure  and  impose  the  name, 
And  fear  us,  or  desire  us,  or  forget? 
Where  is  that  world  by  thee  for  man  designed  ? 
See  where  yon  little  whiteness  near  the  sun 
Walks  virginal,  a  moon  of  innocence, 
That  hell  reformed,  which  of  our  deathless  war 
Remembers  nothing,  nor  of  man's  debauch 
In  futile  lusts  he  never  learned  from  me, 
His  godlike  wallowings  in  the  slough  of  love 
And  fattenings  of  his  purposeless  desire; 
Nor  of  man's  end  remembers,  nor  its  own 
Foresees,  but  coldly  haunts  the  dying  sun, 
Thy  little  world,  which,  being  dead,  is  pure." 


128  SATAN 

So  at  the  vaulted  shell  of  utmost  heaven 

Challenging  toward  the  impenetrable  beyond, 

The  eternal  questioner   waited   upon  God. 

Merely  to  stand  in  that  great  light  he  strove; 

Even  as  a  bird  in  a  strong  wind  pendulous 

With  league-long  flight  only  his  station  holds, 

So  beating  up  into  the  sight  of  God 

Satan  no  headway  made,  but  with  fierce  wing 

Pushing  from  darkness,  the  orbed  vacancy 

Retraced  of  an  annihilated  star. 

Soon,  unrebuked,  he  shouted  up  through  space — 

"Thou  who  didst  build  this  crumbling  universe, 
O  Boaster,  who  wouldst  bruise  me  with  the  heel 
Of  man,  but  first  wouldst  play  me  for  his  soul, 
Alas,  the  pieces  and  the  board  wear  out 
Ere  the  game  quite  begins!     Omnipotence, 
Did  prudence  whisper  thee  to  this  shrewd  end, 
Or  thy  weak  will  that  could  not  well  create? 
Or  hast  thou  played,  Gambler  Divine,  as  one 
Who  sits  no  longer  at  a  losing  game, 
But  sweeps  the  board  away?'* 


SATAN  129 

Still  unperturbed 

The  blessed  silence  of  the  face  of  God 
Came  luminous  against  Satan  as  he  strove. 
He  then  with  moderated  insolence — 

"Forgive,  Almighty  God;  for  well  I  know 
Not  from  thy  weakness  flows  this  huge  decay, 
But  from  thy  central  virtue,  Change.     Forgive 
One  like  me  steadfast,  who  from  star  to  star 
Tracked  in  exile  my  yearnings  and  my  faith, 
The  azure  promise  of  my  heart  of  light, 
Eternity,  that  only  in  me  was; 
Whereon  man  gazing  fed  his  want  therewith, 
Like  the  cool  stars  to  endure  perpetually. 
How  should  he  dream  of  goodness  but  from  thee  ? 
And  this  desire  was  good;  who  then  but  thou 
Should  be  his  everlasting,  his  length  of  days? 
Thou  knowest,  who  knowest  all,  in  honorable 
Intent  the  least  advantage  to  abjure, 
Though  my  own  nature  bred  it,  I  drove  out 
This  strong  delusion  from  man's  clinging  soul; 
Me  only  eternal,  me  the  evil  one 


130  SATAN 

He  by  my  aid  beheld ;  and  worshiped  thee 
The  various,  the  time-server,  the  manifold  death. 
Though  I  have  helped  man  to  a  little  truth, 
Lord,  blame  not  me  that  his  excited  mind 
Hath  thrown  thee  in  these  meshes  of  thyself, 
Thinking,    since    all     things    alter,    God    must 

change ; 

Seasons  of  climax  limit  even  the  arc 
Of  godhood,  flowering  ever  from  age  to  age, 
Full  blown,  then  fading,  then  in  bud  again. 
But  why,  O  Prudence,  who  alone  art  wise, 
Didst  thou  proclaim  thyself  Absolute  Good? 
Man  with  his  maggot  reason  sapped  thy  boast : 
The  perfect  evil  must  at  last  be  good, 
The  perfect  good  be  evil,  for  all  evolve. 
Lo,  man  hath  reconciled  us,  who  before 
Diluted  never  our  happiness  of  hate — 
Yea,  in  a  twilight  kinship  hath  confused 
What  in  our  will  were  strange  as  night  and  day ; 
Evil  uprooted  from  me  I  have  felt, 
With  alien  pang  some  graft  of  goodness  known, 
And,  though  I  look  not  on  thy  holy  face, 


SATAN  I31 

Wearest  thou  not   some  scars  that  once  were 

mine?" 

On  venom  more  sinister  meditative 
Circlewise    through    wide    heaven    the    Serpent 

swayed 
Cobra-headed,  darting  his  vibrant  tongue — 

"The  secret  of  thy  treacherous  plan  for  him 

Did  man  not  solve,  the  terminus  foresee 

Of  breath-departed  dust  and  cooling  earth — 

Unfathomable  emptiness  at  the  last? 

Yea,  did  he  not  forestall  thy  trick,  O  God, 

And  ere  his  end,  annihilate  thee  first? 

For  him  were  not  all  causes  but  deceits 

Raised  by  mirage  in  his  hot,  barren  soul, 

Thou  the  mere  shadow  of  his  little  self 

Cast  large  in  front  by  me,  his  following  light?" 

Wrath-wearied,  yet  defiant,  Satan  abode; 
Then  bafHed  from  the  eyes  inscrutable 
Of  the  First  Patience  and  the  Ultimate  Good, 
Into  profounder  hate  the  fiend  withdrew. 


PARIS,  HELEN'S  LOVER 

I 
Things  of  immortal  beauty  that  are  grown 

Lovelier  with  love,  with  worship  more  divine, 
Dreams  that  command  us  from  the  bronze  or 
stone, 

Music  that  draws  the  heart  out,  line  by  line, 
Pageants  of  fate  that  from  a  trivial  story 

Took  life-blood,  and  on  humble  lips  began, 
And  oft  rehearsed,  grew  to  heroic  glory, 

And  speak  at  last  the  destiny  of  man — 
"Oh  shroud  yourselves  and  be  of  earth  again; 
Will  you  expect  a  passion  to  sustain 

Your  unrelenting  loveliness?"  we  cry, 
We,  frailer  than  our  fathers,  and  our  eyes 
Look  down,  and  ask  for  lowlier  gods  to  rise — 

Things  of  immortal  beauty  that  pass  by! 
132 


PARIS,  HELEN'S  LOVER  133 


II 

Helen's  remote  forefathers  would  we  be, 

Happier  the  more  remote,  is  our  belief; 
Excused  from  worship  and  from  wonder  free, 

Crude  beauty  serves  our  passion  rude  and  brief. 
Such  humble  tribute  to  Oenone  came 

When  Paris  on ''the  mountain  spied  her  charms, 
And  kept  his  herds  and  followed  the  wild  game, 

And  when  the  mood  was  on  him,  sought  her 

arms, 

Until  he  saw  Queen  Helen  in  her  bower, 
And  her  imperious  beauty  had  its  power. 

He  knew  not  then  his  poverty  of  heart; 
He  only  knew  he  had  a  way  with  beauty, 
And  kiss  and  touch  were  all  a  lover's  duty, 

And  not  to  love  too  much  was  half  his  art. 


134  PARIS,  HELEN'S  LOVER 


III 
Helen's  remote  forefather,  when  he  chose 

An  easy  mate  for  soul  and  body,  learned 
A  faith  in  love  that  out  of  love  arose, 

And  beauty  kindling  upon  beauty  burned; 
Some  Spartan  girl  he  took  by  casual  choice 

Brought  to  the  vacant  shrine  the  sacred  fire, 
Some  grace  of  body,  some  delight  of  voice, 

That  laid  a  consecration  on  desire. 
Then  on  the  passing  rapture  memory   fell, 
And  glamour  even  through  absence  kept  its  spell, 

And  the  deep-brooding  intervals  of  passion 
Glimpses  of  this  new  wonder  would  beget — 
That  beauty  gives  love  being,  and  is  yet 

Of   love  sustained,   and   takes    its   form   and 
fashion. 


PARIS,  HELEN'S  LOVER  135 


IV 

"Things  of  immortal  beauty  that  are  grown 

Lovelier  with  love,  with  worship  more  divine, 
Bring  us  to  Helen  on  her  queenly  throne !" — 

Whether  this  yearning  stirred  her  ancient  line, 
Or  only  a  blind  fate  around  them  played, 

Fairer  through  generations  fell  their  lot ; 
Radiant,  more  radiant,  maid  was  born  from  maid, 

And  nobler  lovers  nobler  loves  begot, 
Torch  lighting  torch ;  and  the  up-leaping  flames, 
All  but  immortal  under  earthly  names, 

Promised  the  things  of  beauty  that  abide — 
A  stream  of  gathered  loveliness  and  growing, 
Swifter  with  time  and  clearer  from  long  flowing, 

And  toward  eternal  meaning  drove  the  tide. 


136  PARIS,  HELEN'S  LOVER 


V 
Leda  at  last  no  lover  among  men 

Worthy  to  meet  her  loveliness  could  find; 
It  was  a  god,  she  thought,  that  wooed  her  then, 

And  matched  her  beauty  with  his  heavenly 

mind; 
Her  body,  yielded  to  his  bright  desire, 

Took  whiteness  from  his  heart,  and  swanlike 

grace, 
And,  lips  to  lips,  she  learned  celestial  fire, 

And  starlike  were  their  glances,  face  to  face, 
Till  all-surrendered  in  delicious  swoon, 
Yet  maiden-minded  as  the  stately  moon 

That  has  the  unceasing  ardor  of  the  sun. 
She  knew  this  miracle  of  ecstasy 
Some  birth  of  marvellous  delight  must  be, 

Some  god-like  thing  exquisitely  begun. 


PARIS,  HELEN'S  LOVER  137 


VI 

Then  Paris,  Helen's  lover,  to  this  stream 

Of  loveliness  unfolding,  set  a  stay; 
Led  by  his  hand,  the  child  of  Leda's  dream 

Went  seaward,  and  the  sails  were  salt  with 

spray, 
But  ere  the  mariners  made  the  happy  coast, 

He  would  have  turned  from  Helen  if  he  could, 
He  would  have  left  her  when  she  charmed  him 
most 

To  seek  again  Oenone  in  the  wood. 
For  when  he  saw  with  terror  open-eyed 
That  fixed  immortal  beauty  by  his  side, 

Impeccable,  invincible,  sublime, 
He  yearned  for  beauty  of  the  earlier  strain 
That  could  relax  a  little  and  be  plain, 

And  rest  a  Ipver's  heart  from  time  to  time. 


ASH-WEDNESDAY 
After  hearing  a  lecture  on  the  origins  of  religion 

Here  in  the  lonely  chapel  I  will  wait, 

I 
Here  will  I  rest,  if  any  rest  may  be ; 

So  fair  the  day  is,  and  the  hour  so  late, 

I  shall  have  few  to  share  the  blessed  calm  with 

me. 

Calm  and  soft  light,  sweet  inarticulate  calls ! 
One  shallow  dish  of  eerie  golden  fire 
By  molten  chains  above  the  altar  swinging, 
Draws  my  eyes  up  from  the  shadowed  stalls 
To  the  warm  chancel-dome;/ 
Crag-like ,  the  clustered  organs  loom, 
Yet  from  their  thunder-threatening  choir 
Flows  but  a  ghostly  singing — 
Half-human  voices  reaching  home 
In  infinite,  tremulous  surge  and  falls. 
Light  on  his  stops  and  keys, 

138 


ASH- WEDNESDAY  139 

And  pallor  on  the  player's  face, 
Who,  listening  rapt,  with  finger-skill  to  seize 
The  pattern   of   a  mood's  elusive   grace, 
Captures  his  spirit  in  an  airy  lace 
Of  fading,  fading  harmonies.  / 
fc^/Oh,  let  your  coolness   soothe 

jju  UM/\ 

My  weariness,  frail  music,  where  you  keep 
(Tryst  with  the  even-fall ; 

Where  tone  by  tone  you  find  a  pathway  smooth 
To  yonder  gleaming  cross,  or  nearer  creep 
Along  the   bronzed   wall, 

Where  shade  by  shade  through  deeps  of  brown 
Comes  the  still  twilight  down. 

Wilt  thou  not  rest,  my  thought? 

Wouldst   thou   go   back   to  that   pain-breeding 

room 
Whence  only  by  strong  wrenchings  thou  wert 

brought  ? 

O  weary,  weary  questionings, 
Will  ye  pursue  me  to  the  altar  rail 
Where  my  old   faith   for   sanctuary  clings, 


140  ASH-WEDNESDAY 

And  back  again  my  heart  reluctant   hale 
Yonder,    where    crushed    against    the    cheerless 

wall 

Tiptoe  I  glimpsed  the  tier  on  tier 
Of  faces  unserene  and  startled  eyes — • 
Such   eyes   as   on   grim   surgeon-work   are   set, 
On  desperate  out-maneuverings  of  doom?/ 
Still  must  I  hear 

The  boding  voice  with  cautious   rise   and    fall 
Tracking  relentless  to  its  lair 
Each   fever-bred  progenitor   of   faith, 
Each   fugitive    ancestral    fear? 
Still  must  I   follow,  as  the   wraith 
Of  antique  awe  toward  a  wreck-making  beach 
Drives  derelict? 
Nay,   rest,   rest,   my   thought, 
Where  long-loved   sound   and  shadow  teach 
Quietness    to    conscience    overwrought. 
Hearken !    The  choristers,  the  white-robed  priest, 
Move  through  the  chapel  dim 
Sounding  of  warfare  and  the  victor's  palm, 
Of  valiant  marchings,  of  the  feast 


ASH-WEDNESDAY  I41 

Spread  for  the  pilgrim  in  a  haven'd  calm. 
How  on  the  first  lips  of  my  steadfast  race 
Sounded  that  battle  hymn, 
Quaint   heaven-vauntings,   with    God's    gauntlet 

flung, 

To  me  bequeathed,  from  age  to  age, 
My  challenge  and  my  heritage; 
"The    Lord   is   in   His    holy   place"— 
How  in  their  ears  the  herald  voice  has  rung! 
Now  will  I   make  bright  their  sword, 
Will  pilgrim  in  their  ancient  path, 
Will  haunt  the  temple  of  their  Lord ; 
Truth  that   is   neither   variable   nor   hath 
Shadow  of  turning,  I  will  find 
In  the  wise  ploddings  of  their  faithful  mind; 
Or  finding  not,  as  in  this   frustrate  hour 
By  questions  hounded,  waylaid  by  despair, 
Yet  in  these  uses  shall  I  know  His  power, 
As  the  warm  flesh  by  breathing  knows  the  air. 


142  ASH-WEDNESDAY 

0  futile  comfort!     My  faith-hungry  heart 
Still  in  your  sweetness  tastes  a  poisonous  sour; 
Far-off,  far-off  I  quiver  'neath  the  smart 

Of  old  indignities  and  obscure  scorn 
Indelibly  on  man's  proud  spirit  laid, 
That  now  in  time's  ironic  masquerade 
Minister   healing  to  the  hurt  and  worn ! 
What  are  those  streams  that  from  the  altar  pour 
Where  goat  and  ox  and  human  captive  bled 
To  feed  the  blood-lust  of  the  murderous  priest? 

1  cannot  see  where  Christ's  dear  love  is  shed, 
So  deep  the  insatiate  horror  washes  red 
Flesh-stains  and  frenzy-sears  and  gore. 
Beneath   that   Cross,    whereon   His   hands   out 
spread, 

What  forest  shades  behold  what  shameful  rites 
Of  maidenhood  surrendered  to  the  beast 
In  obscene  worship  on  midsummer  nights! 
What    imperturbable   disguise 
Enwraps  these  organs  with  a  chaste  restraint 
To    chant   innocuous    hymns   and   litanies 
For  sinner  and  adoring  saint, 


ASH-WEDNESDAY  143 

Which  yet  inherit  like  an  old  blood-taint 
Some  naked  caperings  in  the  godliest  tune, — 
Goat-songs  and  jests  strong  with  the  breath  of 

Pan, 

That  charmed  the  easy  cow-girl  and  her  man 
In  uncouth  tryst  beneath  a  scandalous  moon! 
Ah,  could  I  hearken  with  their  trust, 
Or  see  with  their  pure-seeing  eyes 
Who  of  the  frame  of  these  dear  mysteries 
Were  not  too  wise! 


Why  cannot  I,  as  in  a  stronger  hour, 
Outface  the  horror  that  defeats  me  now? 
Have  I  not  reaped  complacent  the  rich  power 
That  harvests  from  this  praise  and  bowing  low? 
On  this  strong  music  I  have  mounted  up, 
At  yonder  rail  broke  bread,  and  shared  the  holy 

cup, 

And  on  that  cross  have  hung,  and  felt  God's  pain 
Sorrowing,  sorrowing,  till  the  world  shall  end. 


144  ASH-WEDNESDAY 

Not   from  these   forms   my   questionings    come 

That  serving  truth  are  purified, 

But  from  the  truth  itself,  the  way,  the  goal, 

One   challenge   vast   that   strikes   faith   dumb — 

If  truth  be  fickle,  who  shall  be  our  guide? 

"Truth  that  is  neither  variable,  nor  hath 

Shadow  of  turning?"    Ah,  where  turns  she  not! 

Where  yesterday  she  stood, 

Now  the  horizon  empties — lo,  her  steps 

Where  yonder  scholar  woos,  are  hardly  cold, 

Yet  shall  he  find  her  never,  but  the  thought 

Mantling  within  him  like  her  blood 

Shall   from   his   eloquence   fade,   and   leave   his 

words 

Flavor'd  with  vacant  quaintness  for  his  son. 
What  crafty  patience,  scholar,  hast  thou  used, 
Useless  ere  it  was  begun — 
What  headless  waste  of  wing, 
Beating   vainly    round    and    round! 
In  no  one  Babel  were  the  tongues  confused, 
But  they  who  handle  truth,  from  sound  to  sound 
Master   another  speech   continuously. 


ASH-WEDNESDAY  145 

Deaf  to  familiar  words,  our  callous  ear 
Will  quiver  to  the  edge  of  utterance  strange; 
When  truth  to  God's  truth-weary  sight  draws 

near, 

Cannot  God  see  her  till  she  suffer  change? 
Must  ye  then  change,  my  vanished  youth, 
Home  customs  of  my  dreams? 
Change  and  farewell! 
Farewell,  your  lost  phantasmic  truth 
That  will  not  constant  dwell, 
But  flees  the  passion  of  our  eyes 
And  leaves  no  hint  behind  her 
Whence  she  dawns  or  whither  dies, 
Or  if  she  live  at  all,  or  only  for  a  moment  seems. 

Here  though  I  only  dream  I  find  her, 

Here  will  I  watch  the  twilight  darken. 

Yonder  the  scholar's  voice  spins  on 

Mesh  upon  mesh  of  loveless  fate; 

Here  will  I  rest  while  truth  deserts  him  still. 

What  hath  she  left  thee,  Brother,  but  thy  voice? 

After  her,  have  thy  will, 


146  ASH-WEDNESDAY 

And  happy  be  thy  choice! 

Here  rather  will  I  rest,  and  harken 

Voices  longer  dead  but  longer  loved  than  thine. 

Yet  still  my  most  of  peace  is  more  unrest, 

As  one  who  plods  a  summer  road 

Feels  the  coolness  his  own  motion  stirs, 

But  when  he  stops  the  dead  heat  smothers  him, 

Here  in  this  calm  my  soul  is  weariest, 

Each  question  with  malicious  goad 

Pressing  the  choice  that  still  my  soul  defers 

To  visioned  hours  not  thus  eclipsed  and  dim, 

Lest  in  my  haste  I  deem 

That  truth's  invariable  part 

Is  her  eluding  of  man's  heart. 

Farewell,  calm  priest  who  pacest  slow 

After  the  stalwart-marching  choir! 

Have  men  through  thee  taught  God  their  dear 

desire  ? 

Hath  God  through  thee  absolved  sin? 
What  is  thy  benediction,  if  I  go 
Sore  perplexed  and  wrought  within? 


ASH-WEDNESDAY  147 

Open  the  chapel  doors,  and  let 
Boisterous  music  play  us  out 
Toward  the  flaring  molten  west 
Whither  the  nerve-racked  day  is  set; 
Let  the  loud  world,  flooding  back, 
Gulf  us  in  its  hungry  rout ; 
Rest?    What  part  have  we  in  rest? 

Boy  with  the  happy  face  and  hurrying  feet, 

Who  with  thy  friendly  cap's  salute 

Sendest  bright  hail  across  the  college  street, 

If  thou  couldst  see  my  answering  lips,  how  mute, 

How  loth  to  take  thy  student  courtesy ! 

What  truth  have  I  for  thee? 

Rather  thy  wisdom,  lad,  impart, 

Share  thy  gift  of  strength  with  me, 

Still  with  the  past  I  wrestle,  but  the  future  girds 

thy  heart. 
Clutter  of  stubborn  yesterdays  that  clothe  us  like 

a  shell, 
Thy  spirit  sloughs  their  bondage  off,  to  walk 

new-born  and  free. 


ASH-WEDNESDAY 

All  things  the  human  heart  hath  learned — God, 

Heaven,  earth  and  hell — 
Thou  weighest  not  for  what  they  were,  but  what 

they  still  may  be. 

Whether  the  scholar  delve  and  mine  for  faith- 
wreck  buried  deep, 
Or  the  priest  his  rules  and  holy  rites,  letter  and 

spirit,  keep, 
Toil  or  trust  in  breathless  dust,  they  shall  starve 

at  last  for  truth; 
Scholar  and  priest  shall  live  from  thee,  who  art 

eternal  youth. 
Holier   if   thou   dost   tread   it,   every   path   the 

prophets  trod; 
Clearer  where  thou  dost  worship,  rise  the  ancient 

hymns  to  God; 
Not  by  the  priest  but  by  thy  prayers  are  altars 

sanctified ; 
Strong  with  new  love  where  thou  dost  kneel,  the 

cross  whereon  Christ  died. 


"TAKE  NOT  THY  HOLY  SPIRIT 
FROM  US" 

I 

Sigh  and  thunder,  pause  and  roar — 
Unwearied  on  the  foam-laced  shore 
Since  the  changing  tides  began, 
Speaks  the  ocean-voice  to  man. 

How  silently,  ere  man  was  made, 
Up  and  down  the  long  tides  swayed, 
Weaving  under  sun  and  moon 
Song  without  meaning,  word  or  tune. 

149 


150     "TAKE  NOT  THY  SPIRIT  FROM  us' 


II 

Above  the  altar's  silk  and  lawn 
The  lips  of  patience,  sorrow-drawn, 
Lean  from  the  cross  toward  my  heart; 
Then  in  His  sufferings  have  I  part. 
Of  mortal  sins  the  wounds  divine 
That  racked  His  spirit,  rescue  mine. 
Homeward  in  peace  we  go, — and  see, 
The  unmoved  sexton  turns  the  key ! 
The  dying  Christ  upon  the  rood 
Hangs  in  unworshiped  solitude, 
And  that  which  made  God's  mercy  known 
Is  loveless  carving,  speechless  stone. 


Ill 

If  our  thought  of  them  can  give 
The  sea  its  voice,  the  stone  its  word, 
So  in  Thy  thought  of  us  we  live ! 
Take  not  Thy  Spirit  from  us,  Lord. 


CHILDHOOD 

To  be  Himself  a  star  most  bright 
To  bring  the  wise  men  to  His  sight, 
To  be  Himself  a  voice  most  sweet 
To  call  the  shepherds  to  His  feet, 
To  be  a  child — it  was  His  will, 
That  folk  like  us  might  find  Him  still. 


INNKEEPER 

"I  said,  don't  thank  me.    Well,  if  you  insist, 
It  was  my  father  thought  of  it,  thank  him. 
I  told  you  at  the  gate  there  was  no  room ; 
No  more  there  is,  and  I  will  not  pretend 
I  wanted  you.    I  said  the  inn  was  full ; 
I  did  not  say  the  stable  was  to  let." 

But  Joseph  heard  him  to  the  end,  and  had 
The  quiet  of  the  stars  above  his  head, 
Past  midnight,  in  the  courtyard,  and  replied, 
"Use  now  what  words  soever,  yet  you  were  kind, 
You  and  your  father  both,  to  shelter  her, 
Such  kindness  to  remember,  to  tell  over" — 

"Man,  if  you  can't  forget,  don't  speak  of  it! 
Don't  say  you  lodged  with  us;  you  don't,  you 

know. 

Frankly,  we  have  a  name  for  comfort  here, 
Our  guests  lie  easy;  it  would  hurt  the  house 
To  have  you  for  a  witness  to  our  fare ; 
152 


INNKEEPER  153 

You  are  no  guest,  you  see,  you  pay  nothing, 
We  give  you  nothing;  the  stable  for  a  night" — 

Then  Joseph  spoke:  "You  have  a  name  for 

comfort ; 

Why  not  a  name  for  kindness  ?    I  have  known 
No  innkeeper  in  his  high  tide  of  trade 
Take  in  the  poor;  shall  I  not  speak  of  it?" 

The  other  shook  his  head  in  slow  contempt, 
And  threw  up  thin,  exasperated  hands : 
"Who  would  believe  you,  even  if  you  spoke? 
It  was  our  meanness,  all  your  friends  will  think, 
Thrust  you  into  the  stable,  though  you  know 
There  was  no  room.     But  better  to  be  frank 
And  take  no  praise  for  kindness  we  don't  feel. 
We've  just  so  many  rooms,  and  the  worst  is, 
The  gold  a  late  guest  brings  won't  build  a  room, 
And  the  late-comer  never  will  take  no. 
Innkeeper's  art,  I  say,  is  keeping  out; 
My  father's  passion  is  for  taking  in. 
He  says  a  door  was  made  to  open.    God ! 
I  camp  at  our  door,  just  to  keep  it  closed. 
Since  the  son  left  us,  he  has  gone  clean  mad. 


154  INNKEEPER 

"His  son?"  asked  Joseph;  "Are  you  not  his 
son?" 

"Only  the  elder  brother.    I  keep  the  inn. 
The  other  was  my  father's  son,  hating 
The  business  as  my  father  hates  it;  I 
By  toil  and  thrift  made  fortunes  for  them  both, 
Till  one  fine  day  he  said,  'Give  me  my  portion, 
Father,  I  must  go' ;  he  gave  it,  and  he  went, 
Where,  we  don't  know,   with  part  of  what  I 

earned. 

Good-bye  to  that !    But  now  my  father  grieves 
And  must  be  entertainer  to  the  poor, 
A  specialist  in  guests  who  cannot  pay; 
Lame,  halt  or  blind,  the  heathen  or  the  strange, 
We  have  them  all  in  now,  so  they  be  queer. 
A  while  ago,  when  your  rough  callers  knocked, 
Would  I  have  turned  a  key,  and  past  midnight, 
Had  I  the  say?    Well  then,  I  am  a  fool 
Talking  so  much,  so  late,  under  the  sky." 

"I  have  troubled  you;  my  going  thanks  you 

best," 
And  Joseph  through  the  darkness  to  the  stable 


INNKEEPER  155 

Door  moved,  a  shadow  and  a  sound  of  steps. 
Then  down  the  stairway  of  the  inn  a  taller 
Shadow,  a  heavier  step:  "Well  then,  what  voice 
Was  that,  my  son?  or  was  it  yours  I  heard 
Raised  in  rebuke?    What  scolding  at  this  hour?" 

"It  was  your  stable-tenant;  there  he  goes. 
A  busy  night  for  him !    His  wife,  you  know, 
Gave  him  a  child,  it  must  be  now  two  hours. 
That  business  scarcely  ended,  then  we  had 
A  band  of  shepherds  banging  at  the  gate 
To  inspect  the  baby.    In  they  trooped,  of  course, 
And  hardly  with  persuasion  were  got  out, 
When  comes  the  happy  father  with  profuse 
Thanks  for  the  great  convenience  of  your  shed. 
Here  we  have  talked  till  morning,  as  you  see; 
The  hour  means  nothing  to  us.  I  said,  thank  you, 
Not  me.     He'll  thank  you,  and  I'll  get  to  bed." 

The  innkeeper,  remembering,  to  himself, 
"That  woman  with  the  weary  face,  I  knew 
Needed  quick  shelter  when  I  saw  her  first." 

"I  knew  it  too ;  that's  why  I  told  the  man 
To  go  elsewhere.  Oh,  children  must  be  born, 


156  INNKEEPER 

And  travelers  must  be  lodged  and  warmed  and 

fed, 
But  how  to  manage  both  in  the  same  place  ?" 

He  laughed,  but  stopped  at  the  Innkeeper's 

tone — 

"You  said  this  to  the  father?     You  could  touch 
His  happiest  moment  with  your  selfish  spleen? 
It  was  your  voice,  then,  sounded  that  tirade 
To  rouse  the  sleepers  in  my  house!     Who  else 
Would  hurt  the  man?    I  told  you  when  he  came, 
Whether  or  not  you  liked  it,  they  should  have 
What  we  could  give  them,  little  though  it  were. 
You  could  not  keep  them  out,  the  inn  is  mine, 
So  you  take  a  mean  way  to  shade  their  joy !" 

"We  can  be  frank,  my  Father;  you  and  I 
Know  where  we  disagree.    The  inn  is  yours — 
How  long  it  would  be  so  I  cannot  tell 
If  all  your  princely  humor  had  its  way. 
If  food  and  lodging  are  for  giving  free, 
Where  do  we  get  the  food  and  roof  to  give? 
This  inn  is  all  you  have ;  prosperity 
Never  took  hold  here  by  your  open  hand ; 


INNKEEPER  157 

And  even  this  I  made  for  you — I  saw 
That  honest  men  were  served,  and  what  is  more, 
Made  sure  they  paid  like  honest  men.    Day-long 
I  slave  for  you,  at  night  I  watch  your  gate, 
Keeping  a  cat-like  ear  for  thieves,  or  oft 
As  now  awake  for  you  almost  till  dawn. 
You  are  revered  for  a  large-hearted  man, 
I  hated  for  a  mean  one;  would  they  knew 
What  you  are  generous  with  is  what  I  earn! 
For  this  I  have  no  thanks,  no  praise  from  you; 
You,  too,  see  meanness  in  me — but  you  loved 
My  idle  brother,  generous  like  yourself. 
Know  me  at  least,  then,  for  sincerity; 
My  duty  is  to  you,  but  my  own  thoughts 
Are  mine,  and  I  have  never  worn  a  mask. 
When  this  man  offered  thanks  for  what  he  got, 
I  told  him  to  thank  you ;  had  I  my  way, 
He  never  had  come  in.    True,  is  it  not? 
Now  I  tell  you  what  I  would  not  tell  him — 
fTis  I  who  buy,  not  you,  his  food  and  straw, 
The  welcome  you  commanded.     I  alone 
Lose  sleep  between  two  heavy  days  for  him; 


158  INNKEEPER 

You  who  came  quickly  to  reprove  my  speech, 
Stirred  not  a  foot  to  serve  him,  all  night  long." 
He  paused,  and  in  the  darkness  the  two  men, 
Facing    each    other,    heard    the    small    night- 
sounds — 

The  breathing  house — far  off  beyond  the  town 
A  faint  call  from  the  fields — and  then  a  voice, 
A  word  or  two,  caught  through  the  stable  door. 
Stillness.     In  husky  syllables  at  last 
The  older  man  half-whispered, 

"Your  own  thoughts 

Are  yours;  indeed,  what  truth  you  see,  you  tell. 
By  the  slow  turning  of  incessant  toil, 
Your  unrelaxing  vigilance,  our  wealth 
Has  come  on  us  like  fate  inexorable. 
The  house  itself,  the  habit  of  our  trade, 
My  father  gave  me;  whatever  came  besides, 
You  chiefly  earned — so  far,  all  that  I  have 
Is  yours.    And  were  the  silver  in  the  hand 
The  one  bright  end  of  hospitality, 
Your  duty  were  well  done,  and  I  had  failed. 
Even  what  I  give  away,  so  far  as  lies 


INNKEEPER  159 

Within  a  trader's  science  to  compute, 

May  well  be  something  you  have  earned  for  me. 

Yet  if  I  give  kind  greeting,  use  a  tone 

Above  the  warmth  the  body  understands, 

That  to  the  soul  says  hospitable  things, 

I  part  with  what  never  belonged  to  you. 

And  if  your  brother  had  the  neighbors'  love 

For  headlong  sheer  delight  in  daily  life, 

Prophetic  tasting  of  the  human  lot 

And  zest  for  the  strong  flavor  of  the  world, 

So  that  whoever  lodged  here  found  an  eye 

Kindling,  an  ear  friendly  to  traveler's  talk, 

A  heart  inquisitive  of  space  and  light — 

This  comrade  interest  prodigally  given 

Was  what  you  never  had.     Shall  we  be  frank? 

If  in  this  course  of  duty  you  perform 

The  inn  makes  silver  for  us,  thanks  to  you, 

Therefore  you  feel  some  dedicated  breath 

Exalt  your  service  and  refine  your  zeal. 

How  know  you  this  is  duty?    Who  desired, 

But  you,  to  make  the  inn  more  than  it  was — 

A  house  of  warmth  for  wayfarers,  a  home? 


160  INNKEEPER 

Did  anyone  but  you  ask  to  be  rich  ? 

Who  asked  to  be  an  innkeeper  ?     Not  I ! 

Nor  our  true  boy  who  rose  and  went  away; 

If  ever  he  comes  back,  it  will  not  be 

To  rival  you,  nor  envy  the  inn-trade. 

When  I  am  dead  and  the  inn  yours  at  last, 

Do  anything  you  like,  and  call  it  duty, 

But  while  I  live  and  the  house  bears  my  name, 

Just  for  that  human  name  I  turn  away 

No  poor  soever,  coming  as  these  came — 

Not  while  I  have  a  stable  and  some  straw." 

"Your  human  name?"  the  elder  brother  asked. 
"Your  human  name  will  never  profit  by  it; 
Men  being  so,  they  never  will  be  sure 
Whether  the  stable  was  a  gift  of  love, 
You  having  nothing  better,  or  a  sign 
Of   meanness,   to   treat   poor    folk   like   dumb 
beasts." 

"Well,  have  they  not  excuse  ?"  his  father  said. 
"No  innkeeper  was  ever  hospitable, 
Nor  ever  could  be,  while  he  plied  his  trade, 
Or  if  he  was,  it  never  could  be  known. 


INNKEEPER  l6l 

The  least  of  men  will  share  what  food  he  has, 
What   roof,   what   fire,   with   whomsoe'er    God 

sends ; 

If  I  have  food  before  me,  and  one  knocks 
And  steps  across  my  threshold,  of  that  meat 
I  proffer  him — yes,  though  he  were  my  foe, 
Yet  if  he  eat  with  me  he  goes  in  peace, 
So  binding  is  the  sacrament  on  mankind — 
On  all  save  innkeepers ;  but  how  on  them  ? 
Remember  what  you  said — if  they  give  aught, 
Lodging  or  food  or  fire,  how  shall  they  earn 
The  things  to  give?     No,  if  the  innkeeper 
Sits  down  to  eat,  and  one  knocks  at  the  door, 
He  bids  him  in  and  shares  the  meal  with  him, 
And  makes  him  pay  for  both.    Or  if  he  show 
Kindness,  the  rumor  will  be  that  he  made 
Profit  no  less,  but  handsomely  disguised. 
This  from  my  youth  I  felt  about  my  trade, 
Your  brother  felt,  and  this  you  did  not  feel ; 
To  go  a  lifetime  through  this  happy  world 
And  never  have  a  friend  draw  to  the  table, 
Nor  casual  guests  at  twilight  in  the  rooms 


l62  INNKEEPER 

Bidden  to  share  the  ritual  of  bread 
And  ceremony  of  the  household  wine, 
But  diabolic  thoughts  of  who  should  pay 
Must  steal  away  the  blessing.    For  the  feast 
We  pay  indeed — always  some  sacrifice, 
Hardship  or  drudgery,  buys  the  right  to  give; 
But  gifts  cannot  be  sold.    This  many  a  year 
I  would  have  left  the  inn  and  fled  the  curse, 
But  old  roots  held  me  to  the  earth,  and  you 
Furnished  me  with  a  duty  to  remain. 
But  when  your  brother  asked  to  leave  us  both 
I  knew  what  called  him  hence,  what  drew  him 

out 

To  make  the  large  escape  I  failed  to  make, 
To  have  a  free  soul  and  a  liberal  heart, 
And  taste  unsoured  the  natural  grace  of  life. 
He  may  not  come  again,  though  I  shall  wait, 
He  may  not  come  again,  he  may  be  dead, 
But  some  of  us  who  breathe  have  never  lived; 
Had  but  this  house  been  what  a  hearth  should  be, 
He  would  have  found  a  good  life  here." 

"My  father, 


INNKEEPER  163 

You  are  unjust,  you  make  me  out  too  base 
And  him  too  fine,  but  so  you  always  did. 

And  I  who  toil  here " 

"As  you  said.     Enough; 
Have  you    to  rest  or  watch  beside  the  gate; 
No  visitor  I  think  will  now  invade 
Your  quiet." 

Ready  to  answer,  the  elder  son 
Thought  better  of  it,  and  deliberately 
Walked  to  his  station  by  the  gate.     Straightway 
His  father,  turning  toward  the  stable  door, 
Knocked  softly  and  turned  back,  and  stood  wait 
ing. 

Into  the  starlit  courtyard  Joseph  came 
Quickly:  "Who  calls?"  and  the  Innkeeper  said, 
"It  is  a  blessing  for  the  child,  who  merely 
By  being  born  puts  wonder  on  my  house. 
We  welcome  here  many  a  chance  arrival, 
Rarely  a  life  itself/' 

"You  are  the  master?" 

The  other  said ;  "I  would  have  brought  the  news 
Earlier  of  your  guest,  of  this  new  life 


164  INNKEEPER 

Your  mercy  welcomed  to  a  crowded  world. 
Your  kind  voice  is  good  omen — may  he  find 
Among  men  of  good  will  his  friends  hereafter. 
It  is  as  though  he  heard  and  thanked  you  now, 
So  well  he  will  remember,  growing  up 
In  the  strong  habit  of  our  gratitude." 

"A  son — a  son."     Slowly  the  Innkeeper 
Said  the  word  over;  "Is  there  an  elder  son?" 

"There  is  no  other." 

"The  one  child  of  your  heart, 
To  taste  your  life  again,  the  best  of  it, 
Radiant  as  he  lives  it  with  the  bloom 
Your  own  days  wore  only  in  memory. 
The  pleasures  he  must  come  on,  the  delights, 
The  traps  and  tangles  in  the  way  foreseeing, 
Your  hand  will  steady  him  from  many  a  fall, 
Or  since  mistakes  may  have  rich  meaning,  oft 
You  will  look  on  and  trust  him  to  himself. 
— What  is  your  trade?" 

"A  carpenter,"  he  said. 
"I  envy  you/'  said  the  Innkeeper;  "yours 
Is  happy  trade — you  build,  you  make  us  doors 


INNKEEPER  165 

That  open,  thresholds  to  be  crossed,  tables 
For  gathering  round ;  from  life  to  life  the  home 
Handles  your  work;  your  carving  on  a  chair 
That  had  a  charm,  it  may  be,  for  a  child — 
One  glimpse  of  it  in  age  brings  childhood  back, 
And  fills  with  spirits  the  old  room.    Your  mark 
Cuts  deeper  than  you  purpose.     I  say,  the  boy 
Is  happy,  born  to  such  a  trade." 

Joseph 

Caught  at  the  word— "He  will  not  follow  it!" 
"Not  follow  it?"  asked  the  Innkeeper.     "Why 

not? 

Are  you  so  soon  acquainted  with  his  mind 
These  first  two  breathing  hours?    Or  why  fore 
bode 

Evil  so  early?     Where  the  father's  work 
Is  happy,  it  is  happy  for  the  son, 
Or  custom,  even  when  the  work  is  dull, 
Sometimes  compels  us,  and  may  bring  content." 

"I  did  not  think  of  evil,"  Joseph  said, 
"Nor  of  the  infant's  will,  but  of  my  own; 
For  me  my  life  is  happy,  yet  for  him 


l66  INNKEEPER 

I  wish  far  better." 

"Man,  if  you  are  happy, 
Nothing  is  better.     To  be  content  at  home, 
Rooted  in  memories,  sheltered  among  friends, 
Measuring  experience  by  steady  hours 
Through  broadening  angles  of  the  arc  of  life — 
First  leaning  on  the  love  that  gave  you  birth, 
Then  turned  away,  ungraciously  it  seems, 
Little  by  little,  irresistibly, 
To  contemplate  new  passions  of  your  own, 
Then,  meaning  to  be  selfish,  step  by  step 
Entering  by  miracle  of  unnoticed  change 
The  newer  lives  your  centered  love  begot, 
Till  you  awake  to  where  your  father  stood 
And  find  yourself  rehearsing  what  he  was, 
Your  own  spontaneous  acts  ghostly  with  his — 
All  this  to  taste  deliberately,  and  miss 
None  of  the  richness;  is  life  more  than  this?" 

"Seldom  it  is,"  Joseph  replied,  "and  yet 
It  might  be  more.      To  keep  him,  as  you  say, 
With  us  at  home  were  happiness — and  yet 
There  is  another  and  a  larger  way, 


INNKEEPER  167 

If  happiness  is  something  to  be  shared. 
Households  there  are  where  memory  is  grim, 
And  ghosts  insisting  and  unbeautiful 
Beset  old  age;  not  all  fires  on  the  hearth 
Burn  comfortably — too   feeble,  or  they  scorch. 
There  are  whole  lands,  they  say,  that  never  had, 
Like  us,  the  light  to  choose  a  good  life  by, 
Never  found  out  the  secret  of  the  home, 
Nor  reached  our  usage  of  still  moving  time — 
This  looking  back  on  age  when  we  are  young 
And  forward  over  youth  when  we  are  old ; 
No  gracious  art,  as  you  to  us  have  shown, 
Of  welcome  and  receiving,  but  they  grope 
Baffled  in  darkness.     Why  should  we  alone 
Walk  under  stars?     Someone  must  bring  them 

news, 

Someone  who  merely  being  what  we  all 
Might  be,  will  loose  to  utterance  their  sleeping 
Spirit,  and  teach  their  sightless  eyes  to  see. 
What  miracle,  if  only  through  the  world 
One  kind  and  understanding  heart  should  go, 
Spreading  the  temper  of  your  own  innkeeping, 


l68  INNKEEPER 

Making  the  earth  his  home,  from  land  to  land 
Arriving  a  blood-brother  among  men! 
O  were  I  young,  with  courage  to  begin, 
Into  the  far  countries  would  I  journey. 
The  boy  will  do  it;  he  will  grow  to  this 
By  daily  subtle  promptings  of  the  home 
And  hearing  how  the  world  has  need  of  friends, 
And  how  the  nations  in  our  time  have  fallen 
Like  an  old  house  whose  tired  rafter-ends 
Unwatched,   dead   where   they   touch,    moulder 

apart ; 

And  how  old  timbers  can  be  used  again, 
Yet  now  for  lack  of  skill  we  let  them  lie; 
And  np  one  knows  his  neighbor,  but  suspects 
Meanness,  and  would  be  safe,  and  bars  life  out. 
O,  if  the  best  of  us  would  only  stand 
Patient  before  strange  doors,  and  knock,  and 

cry, 

'Open,  and  let  me  in!'  and  stay  an  hour, 
How  startled  they  would  whisper,  'His  own  folk 
Are  then  like  us  ?    How  well  the  youth  behaves ! 
Good  manners  where  he  came  from!'     Or  per 
haps, 


INNKEEPER  169 

Touched  to  a  deeper  frankness,  they  would  say, 
'Where  he  was  bred,  a  blessing  we  have  missed, 
A  grace,  a  wisdom,  grows/  Would  not  the 

thought 

Pull  us  together  with  good  will  toward  peace? 
If  he  can  spread  the  thought,  should  he  stay 

home?" 

"The  benefit  you  hope  for  will  not  be, 
Friend  carpenter — and  that  way  should  not  be. 
Peace  at  the  hearth  we  need,  and  every  house 
Long-memoried  with  consecrated  days, 
Yet  if  the  road  to  wisdom  is  increase 
Of  hospitable  rites  and  homely  love, 
Shall  we  be  happier  with  one  hearth  the  less, 
With  him  a  wanderer  who  best  loves  the  home? 
He  dwelling  constant  had  set  up  a  lamp 
Eloquent  far  off  of  a  sacred  fire, 
But  now,  a  wistful  looker-in  at  doors, 
A  tarrier  for  the  night,  a  passer-by, 
He  is  a  question  poisoning  their  peace, 
Why  goodness  should  be  exiled  and  astray. 
For  to  be  hospitable  is  sometimes  sad. 


INNKEEPER 

Pleasant  to  greet  the  twilight  guest,  and  open 
Your  life  for  sharing  with  the  fire  and  food, 
So  for  a  moment  he  is  of  the  house — 
Pleasant,  if  in  this  language  he  can  speak, 
Having  himself  the  ritual  of  the  hearth. 
But  if  the  guest  be  homeless,  what  you  do 
Will  be  your  private  ceremony,  rather 
A  cloak  for  queerness  than  a  tongue  to  touch 
Exquisitely  the  heart ;  foreigners  meeting 
With  nod  and  smile,  who  have  no  other  speech, 
Such  you  will  be  with  him ;  you  will  sit  down 
Inside  your  household  words,  and  wish  you  knew 
What  sounds  to  reach  him  with,  or  shamed  to  be 
So  rich,  you  will  touch  lightly  and  avoid 
Things  precious — for  you  know  he  has  no  hearth, 
He  has  begot  no  child,  nor  lived  through  passion 
From  the  red  kindling  to  the  steady  flame; 
These  are  as  jewels  not  decent  to  put  on 
Full  in  the  open  face  of  poverty. 
So  sad  a  presence  would  he  be,  your  son, 
Lover  of  earth  and  human  things,  yet  lonely, 
Being  not  of  earth,  with  no  part  among  men ; 


INNKEEPER  I?I 

Where  he  was  entertained,  disquietude 
Would  linger,  the  pale  shadow  of  his  fate, 
Something  uneasy  in  the  household  ways 
That  till  he  came  were  natural  as  sunlight 
And  rain,  and  soil,  and  fruit,  and  bread,  and 

wine. 

And  he,  having  no  home  nor  place  in  earth, 
No  habit  of  the  flesh  toward  flesh,  no  sense 
Of  heart  with  kindred  heartbeat  keeping  time, 
How  should  he  seem  but  vain  and  vanishing 
Like  a  fine  music  we  forget  to  play? 
Will  he  be  entering  at  all  doors,  yet  never 
Have  his  own  door  to  ask  the  traveler  in? 
Will  he  take  all,  and  never  give  again, 
And  have  no  knowledge  of  the  grace  he  spreads  ? 
This  is  no  joy,  I  say,  no  peace  at  all, 
Only  a  wandering  from  the  few  great  paths 
We  walk  in  all  alike — and  so  to  fill, 
By  parting  more,  the  gulfs  between  us  now! 
This  hospitable  lesson  you  would  teach 
Is  the  one  art  mankind  learned  long  ago ; 
Who  in  what  foreign  land,  will  call  it  news 


172  INNKEEPER 

That  not  the  body  only  but  the  soul 

Sits  at  the  board? — or  if  some  have  not  learned, 

Perhaps  we  need  the  lesson  close  at  hand. 

Better  to  rest  unshaken,  and  take  life 

One  lifetime  further,  each  where  he  was  born, 

Studying  our  little  place  to  know  the  world 

And  understanding  others  through  ourselves. 

Keep  the  boy  home,  strike  roots,  open  the  door — 

And  have  a  door  to  open." 

"You  would  be  right," 
Said  Joseph,  courteous  and  unconvinced, 
"For  other  children,  or  for  common  times, 
And  right  if  all  this  traveling  here  and  there 
Were  a  retreat  from  what  he  did  not  love, 
An  exile,  or  a  searching  for  delight. 
Even  at  the  best,  some  sorrow  with  high  thoughts 
Goes  hand  in  hand;  the  healing  of  the  world 
Is  costly.    Yet  to  have  seen  the  stars,  and  read 
Heavenly  patterns,  and  to  prefer  content — 
Though  one  were  rooted  in  an  ancient  home, 
Would  be  to  vanish  like  a  ghost,  vainer 
Than  music  no  one  plays.    It  is  his  star, 


INNKEEPER  173 

His  calling,  his  one  end ;  this  to  decline, 
Would  be  his  blotting  from  the  book  of  life. 
What  you  have  said  to-night,  how  many  times, 
From  lips  how  various,  will  he  hear  again — 
Lips  kind  as  yours,  or  treacherous  with  a  smooth 
Temptation;  for  to  him  who  has  a  star, 
Pressure  to  follow  lowly  things  may  prove 
Fiend-counsel,  caught  from  hell.     The  boy  will 

go- 

With  so  much  to  be  done,  and  with  a  way 
To  do  it,  we  are  not  free  to  rest  in  peace." 

The  Innkeeper  was  silent,  seeing  well 
What    end    the    talk    had    found — then    softly 

laughed 

As  at  the  general  quaintness  of  the  world: 
"Yes,  if  the  child  is  called,  he  will  be  called, 
But  often  it  is  age  that  does  the  calling ; 
Too  late  grown  wise,  what  things  we  left  undone 
We  call  the  young  to  do,  and  our  desires, 
More  poignant  since  we  know  our  power  is  gone, 
Sound  to  us  like  the  authentic  voice  of  heaven. 
You  and  I  argue  of  the  boy's  career, 


174  INNKEEPER 

Who  has  not  yet  set  lips  on  mother's  milk; 
It  is  our  own  lives  we  would  live  again. 
You  say  the  boy  is  called,  as  though  our  fate 
Were  grooved  in  orbits  waiting  to  be  filled, 
And  you  had  found  for  him  a  track  that  fits ; 
I  say  we  call  ourselves,  and  first  the  heart 
Conceives  whatever  pattern  the  eye  finds — 
Happy  indeed  if  we  have  but  the  will 
To  follow  what  we  find,  the  plan  we  dreamed. 
And  this  world  is  so  poor  of  dreaming  hearts 
That  one  man  with  a  plan  seems  sent  from  God. 
Having  the  dreams  God  gave  us,  and  the  eyes, 
Facing  the  chance  and  changes  of  the  world 
We  see  what  we  have  dreamed,  no  more,  no  less ; 
And  this  is  to  be  called.    A  pile  of  wood 
Thrown  pell-mell  from  a  cart — what  should  it 

mean 

To  clerk  or  lawyer  but  a  pile  of  wood? 
To  you,  a  chair,  a  table,  or  a  shelf, 
What  you  had  thought  of,  and  the  wood  could 

serve; 
You  would  be  called  to  make  it.    Time  itself, 


INNKEEPER  1/5 

So  much  a  tangle,  was  it  ever  else 

Than  a  vast  timber-pile  thrown  from  a  cart 

By  the  great  Forest-Cutter  passing  by? 

If  we  but  have  a  plan,  the  time  comes  apt — 

To  you,  for  all  this  journeying  in  the  world, 

To  me,  keeping  a  hearth;  opening  a  door; 

But  if  we  have  no  plan,  it  is  all  blind, 

A  pause  of  blowing  dust  and  bitter  flame. 

What  plan  will  your  boy  have?    Your  plan,  you 

think. 
Perhaps.     I  have  known  sons   who  would  not 

trace 

Their  fathers'  pattern.    Let  it  be  his  own, 
Whatever  it  be,  the  dream  of  his  own  heart; 
There  is  no  other  calling — What  voice  was  that?" 

It  was  the  elder  brother  from  the  gate: 
"Knock  till  you're  weary,  then,  you  can't  come  in, 
There's  not  a  bed — What's  that  you're  looking 

for? 
Not  sleep!     What?     Wise  men,  are  you?     O, 

you  are ! 


UNIVERSITY  OF 


CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


NOV  6     1947 


" 


YB  73673 


§34788 

'*"**•  VS  .;>* ' 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


